So, I had an idea.

That we all remember the good stuff we bought back in like ’07, ’08 or even as dreadfully far back as ’09? (’04, ’05 and ’06 if you can.) Well, adding a spin to the delightfully miserable Sophia Harlow’s blogger challenge, take all that garbage you don’t wear anymore, and try and make an outfit out of it, that would still pass as a good outfit under today’s standards.

My inspiration is classic Italian looks. I probably failed, but I’m used to it already.

If my arms were longer, they’d be snuggling with my cooter.

I’m not bald.

I really am not bald.

No, I’m not bald asshole.

So, do it if you’re like me and you really have nothing else to blog. Plus I’ll make Valeria Jefferson give you a handjob or something.

What a glorious morning, Kendra.

In my extensive, four week long journey of having a blog and four shitty posts, I had realized something. Granted my real life wardrobe consists of tights, skinny jeans and the occasional American Eagle Polo’s for her, my sense in fashion is a direct mix of an insult to casual wear and something Mattel’s Malibu Barbie excreted on, I’m not to enthused in the subject of getting reviews and shit like that. Plus I’m a humble bumble-bee so I get bashful when people give me things. Real things, not like penetration or whatever. If I’m going to write on my blog frequently and look forward to it, it has to either be on the glorious subject of ME, or ranting on things that annoy me. Like those fugly rabbit pets that are the new craze. I still will do fashion crap, but not as frequently as I had originally planned. Plus, there are too many fashion blogs out there anyway.

Let’s start this new leaf with the story of my morning, 6:35AM to now, 1:15PM. My day started off waking up alone- something I do not like, nor am used to. Thankfully, my deliciously rotund English Bulldog (Who I’m going to alias ‘Little Fuck’.) was there to lick me awake, and not sexually, that’s gross. After I dismissed the veil of slobber he had left on my face, I stumbled around my home, in search of said boyfriend. (Who we’re going to alias ‘Pamela.’)

Since my roommate (Let’s call her camel toe.) of a few years had finally moved out to live with her newfound Latin Lover, the house had gotten a little louder- louder only because I don’t have to whisper the mean things I’m saying about Camel Toe’s, well, hungry hungry cho-cho.

Back to my quest to find the live-in-lover, I had found him. (Before I continue, I should let you know this. He is a hullking 6″2, and about 201 pounds of muscle, I, am about 5″1 and 112 pounds.) He was on the floor, circling the toilet like a picket fence, crying of a kidney stone the size of my nipple.

After he squirted the urethra destroyer, I convinced him to get up and go for a car ride. He then reminded me he wasn’t a bichon frise puppy. It took me twenty solid minutes of beseeching before I had to bribe him with a whopper. Unfortunately for him,  he forgot two things, A.) I don’t eat fast food unless it’s 4 a.m. and I’m stoned or B.) Burger King hasn’t stopped dealing their artery annihilating breakfasts yet. With that in mind, we made the equally unfortunate decision to go to the International House of Pancakes- which not only assassinates arteries, but apparently bowels, too. If, by the time I was done eating my future heart attack, I was in the mood to commit a robbery, I would be well equipped with the button that was barely hanging on to my size 3 Oceanside Super Skinny Legging Jean. I normally don’t indulge, rather go blitzkrieg on my stomach like this, and it was very weird, the only thing weirder for me would be like, dating a guy for a few weeks without any penetration. That would be very, very weird for me.

On the way home, I eyed him toying with the collar on his v-neck deliciously gazing at the Carvel adjacent to my late nineties model Nissan. He looked at it as if he wanted to eat the building, I looked at it like it was the first time I found out balls have hair. I quickly told him ‘No,’ as I loosened my belt. In traffic, trying to make small talk like we’re meeting in an elevator for the first time, he brings up the most awkward things. It was like a white guy’s stereotypical first date.

“Would you ever have sex in a bathroom?”

“No!” I snapped in revolt. I am a woman of class kinda.

“How about on the bleachers?”

“Ugh.” I grumbled, “Is the game still going on?”

“Nah, it just ended.”

“Oh, gross. No.” I focused on driving. The tension died down, and it got quiet. The underlying music of Z100 made me sway my head.

“What about a backseat?” He said quickly.

“I’d be open to it.” I summed up, in an equally fast-paced tone. “But not right now, because I’m going to throw up if anything else goes in me.”

As we pull up into our driveway, he puts his hand on my thigh, completely oblivious to the conversation we had three minutes prior at a stop sign. I then grabbed his bicep appreciatively. Why? Because the night prior he was working out and was about as sore as a loose white girl disembarking from a slummy gang bang club. He squealed in pain, and we scuttled inside.

Then in deep passion, which by now you’d think was all out of the door, we fell asleep on the couch. Not because it’d be cute, because I don’t think we could’ve waddled anymore. Heifer wasn’t our thing. Fourteen minutes ago, I was awoken by the sound of a violent stomach grumbling of what I could only guess was the remains of his ‘Rootie-Tootie Fresh’n Fruity’ swirl in his intestines.  That’s all that’s happened so far, as the next thing I did was type this waste of time up. Next time, Kendra. <3

PS – I’m starting a relief fund for my toilet, which he’s undoubtedly going to also destroy soon. May God send us  strength and a gallon of odor-killing Lysol.

I’m aware I’m a hot mess.

If you have noticed my lack of posting in a few days and have survived the horrible withdrawal, I bring you with yet another fix of Kendra. I barely have the energy or concentration needed to blog. It took me twenty minutes to type all of this. No, it’s not even objectionable that I have ADD. I am so badly unfocused, that inbetween this sentence and it’s prior, I read the entire directions label on the tube of my ‘Burt’s Bees Beeswax Lip Balm.’

In my real life, I visited a mental institution (and no, not to check in. Yet.) for my psychology course. After being told I was going to get cut and raped for the seventh time I stopped and began to think, something I don’t do often, that I needed to blog in my fake life again.

LeLutka released several new hairs within the recent days, and saying I wet myself in a glorious stupor would be an understatement. My bladder excreted a fountain of giddy urine. Throw up from the mental image and get back to me, gurl.

I like the hair.

I am so devilishly tired it’s painful to keep my eyes awake. My recommendation, yes, the hairs are good and you should get them. But the last one, Lea #4 gets a little “I just woke up and smoked a rock of crack I found in this dude’s ass.” lookey. I don’t know what I’m talking about, or where I am. This will be the worst blog post I ever make, and I’m sorry you’ve had to read this. If it’s any consolation, Emleigh Westland apparently drinks too much milk and Plastic Swords doesn’t drink any. James Schwarz either wants Em to be healthy or die, Gabe Bookmite doesn’t know where kilts are from and Alicia Chenaux is cold as hell. Good night, blog, before I end my own life.

Do me a solid and buy the LeLutka hairs. I need to look like this post has done anything useful.

<3

Some people ask me.

“DAMN, GIRL. WHERE’D YOU GET THAT BODY FROM?”

Well, that’s a simple question. I, as you all know, being a figure of unmeasurable beauty, grace and talent, was not created this magnificently perfect at the dawn of my being. Oh, no. It takes a lot of talent (which is not something I lack, as I clearly and often evidence.), a sharp eye and most importantly horse estrogen. You heard right, griddies. The key ingredient in making any female shape in Second Life is dedication and a diet laden with horse estrogen. Who cares if my veins are a few pigments off and my back is sporting a mane, I look majestic.

Kendra body, then.

Kendra face, then.

Kendra bod, now.

Kendra face, now.

If your eyes have not been sizzled from their sockets due to the over-load of visual perfection, you could see that I was clearly the best looking avatar on Tutorial Island. This was a blogger challenge (though telling me to post pictures of myself is hardly a challenge versus a delight to be reminded of my ascertained beauty is hardly a challenge) from the ever lovely, Sophia Harlow. If I ever get the zest to blog again, I will. With great, hearty love, Kendra.