Last night, my Inner child and I grabbed our Baptist hymnal, a friendly folk singer, and a disco queen / perhaps Mary Kate Olsen, and hit the town. I spent the majority of the evening resisting temptation, twirling my pigtails and pouting for pictures.
The folk singer and the disco queen / perhaps Mary Kate Olsen made fine, respectable travelling partners as they nutured me and protecting me from the tribulations of mass transit.
We sought solace from the hoards of Sarah Pallin’s and Michael Phelp’s and Ninja turtles at a fundraiser for Working Man’s Clothes on Christopher Street.
Things were going swell until we encountered a pedophile. (Okay, it was Steve.)
After chatting us up and wooing us with his Lollipop ways – he insisted on escorting me home, which I allowed.
After all, what little girl doesn’t like flowers? Or handle bar mustaches, at that?