On my way out of the theatre now. There are so many rats I should invite them all for tea, gin, and cigars at the theatre. It's small and dank but you must understand my dears: the stage is my nest- I lay eggs on it and regurgatate worms to my babies, letting them grow into eye groggling men and women.
Not too certain if I should listen to my stage manager and change my act, however. This bird has no need for fake feathers. Only my own are what is needed to shake.
Must be on my way before it's too dark.
But first, a story, and more praise for my crumbley apartment. I love it like I love a hot pink panther. My top worst cat I named Cream Puff. The first time I saw her she was sitting damp on the pavement outside of the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. She was wearing a small, thin copper crown on her head and had a Camomile flower clinging to her tie string collar.
I spoke to her, "Kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty!"
She replied, "Da?"
I starred at her cream and yellow butter fur. I picked her up and instantly she bit hard onto my nose. I could not leave her, so I took her back to my apartment. Cream Puff and I get along very well. Our living arrangement is that she doesn't eat my stage make-up, and I stay away from her gourmet kitty treats.
Well it's pretty hard to get the stale end of the deal when you're dealing with a kitty. Anyways...
While in Russia, I was visiting the Ballet for inspiration. The Hermitage was just a detour from my cat snatching... no no I joke, it was fabulous.
Right, so that is where I met my first love. My first indifferent love. My love: chain smoker, collector of pointe shoes, and old woolen socks. She was the Prima Ballerina of the company. Her favourite colours were deep purple and old yellow golds. I will post a photo of her soon as I can.
Dasha Piotr Vladimirovich.
I miss her so. She made one hell of a delectable eclair. She always made it with hot pink icing.