My inner drag queen is still drinking. Wonder what that’s doing to my liver?

We had a deal. If we got some interest from my first post, I could come out again (“come out” HAHAHA, I crack myself up).

So Ta-da, here I am Bitches!!!

Wait…. one comment and five reads on my first post? Christ on a Cracker! Who do you have to blow to get read on this site? Personally, I think I would be better off with my own profile. But I’ll worry about that later, because GURL…. I have been up all night and the story aint pretty.

Since we’re just getting to know each other, I want you to hear it from me first; I spent last night in jail. That’s right, Lala Le Du done got arrested…. again. Only this time, it wasn’t my fault. See I close the drag show every night down at the Kitty’s Meow, one of the perks of having done drag since Eleanor Roosevelt made it fashionable.

Just after my final curtsy, Lele La Poo (I know! Can you believe her name? Bitch is so mocking me) started heckling me. She was all like, “Hey Lala, when even your Drag is a drag, you should retire the hag!”. So then I may have accidently pulled her wig off, which fell onto one of the VIP tables, near a candle. Bitch uses serious hair spray cause the next thing I know, Zsa Zsa Le Queef is there with a fire extinguisher putting out a four-foot blaze. Then Lele’s boyfriend, who is 162 years old if he is a day, smacked me and you won’t believe this — I punched that moth-eaten corpse square in the mouth, ruining a fierce manicure that cost me 35 dollars, I might add. I can’t believe I punched him. I haven’t been in a fight since 7th grade shop class when Cameron Rubenstien called me a fag and I pushed him into the wood buffer.

Anyway, after I landed the punch on Lele’s pet fossil, she jumped on me and before you could say, “Bitch needs an altoid”, we had all-out barroom brawl. It was right out of a movie (okay a B movie) but nevertheless; it was exciting. Little piece of advice, you do not want to mess with a woman wearing size 13 high heels; these are not just fashion accessories, they are serious weapons.

I am one hot mess! I scared the hell out of the poor little Uber driver who took me home from the police station. You should see me. My gown is ripped, my wig is missing a huge hunk of hair, one of my heels broke off, I have a black eye and I think one of my false eyelashes is permanently stuck to my left ear.

The more I think about it though, this butch lifestyle isn’t for me. My hand is so swollen it’s near impossible to operate a cocktail shaker; and how the hell am I going to perform with a black eye? Course I could do a Janay Nay Rice kind of thing. Hey, a girl’s gotta make a living.

I have made myself a Bloody Mary (heavy on the Mary, if you know what I mean) and I am starting to feel better. But if ever there was a time for a disco nap, it is now.

As you know (at least you glorious, wonderful 5 people do) I always end with a quote.

“There are no good girls gone wrong — just bad girls found out.” 
 ― Mae West

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