Actually, I find freesias quite pleasant.
I may or may not have amused myself with making Andrea’s job as difficult as possible.
I am forever in the debt of those that remained loyal followers even through this blog’s brief identity crisis. Long live la Priestly.
Minimal clothing. Very minimal.
I absolutely detested her frizzy, brunette locks when their owner first stumbled into my office. She stumbled do the fact her shoes were despicable. I hated her naivety and innocence to such a degree, the color cerulean began to make my stomach churn with pure disgust. I loathed the triumphant smirk on her red lips when she tossed that manuscript on my desk. Her obnoxious perfume suffocated me in the elevators and her idiotic brown eyes always followed me. Dreadful humming constantly resonated in the office. Her officious smile was haunting. I bitterly endured her sickening countenance for the barely acceptable work she performed.
Then suddenly she was gone. All the dimensions of her character and attributes of her personality that I despised so immensely had vanished. I sadly realized that despite the hate, anger, and annoyance I felt towards these parts of her, I could never actually hate her. Perhaps the most upsetting conclusion was that the reason I hated her hair, her fashion, her face, her opinions, her lips, her voice, her smile, her scent, her eyes…was simply because I realized I would never be allowed to have them, embrace them, kiss them, or, ultimately, love them. I tried to push her away, and I succeeded. I would never be able to hate her, nor would I ever be allowed to love her.
In that crowd on the Parisian street, Andrea Sachs became my biggest disappointment.
Primarily, I do not fully comprehend your connection between confectionery meat products, as mentioned in the prior question, and the upkeep of a personal diary.
Secondly, I was under the impression fiction and the art of writing has been a cultural tradition for roughly 3000 years. I clearly need to offer a late congratulations to the 21st Century geniuses that started this delightful “trend.”
Penultimately, if you wish to inquire as to whether I am well-read in the genre of fiction, then I believe I have the authority to claim as an editor-in-chief of one of the greatest magazines in publishing, soon to be married to a journalist, that, indeed, I am just absolutely oozing literary knowledge and appreciation of the written word. I do, however, refuse to even glance at the atrocity that is Fifty Shades of Grey.
Finally, I am always on top. That’s all.
Where? I, the Devil in Prada, would certainly be in Hell. My death will be the only cause of separation between us. That is all.
I do not have a strong preference for chocolate. Certainly, the occasional indulgence is pleasurable, but I myself would much rather have a dessert that tastes of lemon, citrus, or some other nontraditional flavor. Rhubarb tarts, for example.
I live with two teenage girls and a woman with a voracious sweet tooth. Finding unclaimed chocolate in my household is a rare occurrence. One must learn to adapt.