Hollywood likes to fuck with you. Sending affections and charms only when it wants something from you. And you, after all, are queen in this hotel of milk. And you'll be damned if that son of a gun treats you like anything less. You like the sound of their jaws hitting the ground. The nude lips, the black lashes curled under dark sunnies. Chanel number five on your wrists and hips, that yellow glass bottle is always the finishing touches on a i-don't-give-a-fuck get-up. After all, smelling like your grandma is just one way to play Boston dead. Feather cut-outs and snakes that slither all the way down, you swim around in a sea of vanilla.