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

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.

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.

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 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

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.

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.

In 2009, we lost some of the biggest stars in Hollywood history. We lost someone who little boys masturbated to, and someone who masturbated to little boys. Of course I am talking about Farrah Fawcett and MJ, let’s think of how the Second Life community in general remembered them.

Onto actual Second Life drama. I love it. It’s funny to watch a bunch of adults fight like children. It’s like watching those Geico cavemen commercials, except hopped up on ecstasy and mountain dew. My favorite one has had to be the bickering and the bantering of the morphing pictures. I don’t know what everyone is complaining about. I think they’re beautiful works of art.

Okay, not entirely.

Another favorite one was the Bricks Lemmon debockle. Before I go deeeeeeeeeep into discussion about this, I have one meager question. Has anyone checked to see if this bitch is fucking retarded? When I went on her blog to research more evidence on her alleged mental handicaps, my screen began to lock up and slow down, as if it was saying: “I’m sorry, Kendra- it’s just not worth it.” My speakers were then overwhelmed with the sound of some bubble-gum bullshit music that sounded like what I listened too, before I even knew what the hell High School and self-image were. Why designers still send her shit is far beyond me- unless they want to advertise to the blingtard and pixel stripper crew that more-or-less is her cult following. I myself don’t spend that much money on Second Life, and I don’t ask people for money. When people give me shit I get all awkward and grateful like a blushing little Catholic school girl discovering why boys and girls have separate bathrooms.

Her blogging skills rival the building and human-interaction skills of Danny Bourne. And if you don’t know this moron, he funnels his words less legibly than that of a bossy little kid forever encased in “the terrible two’s” stage of infancy. I simply adore his masterfully rebuts to such powerful accusations by such prominent designers such as the ever-lovely, Colleen Desmoulins. “Cunt.” Blandly declared Danny Bourne, as he slid the empty bowl of cheese doodles to his mother, right before asking for “a refill, noob.” Not much else was heard from him- he didn’t wanna waste his time on us when he still didn’t fully complete the new levels in Evony.

Also in the top ten for drama, the whole Hoorenbeek fiasco. I didn’t have much to say on this topic, other then: “You didn’t see this coming?” I contacted him for my boots that I had bought from him, because the size ‘small’ on them enveloped about half of my calf bone. He said: “y didnt u demo lolz” after a four day wait period. I just assumed he was twelve and was to busy dabbling in Call of Duty then to talk to me. Like paying customers deserve decency in Second Life. THIS IS THE INTERNET AFTER ALL PEOPLE. GOD.

With all the content theft buzzing around, I have another special announcement. I am running for the head of Linden Lab. I mean, why not? It appears that we both have the same level of experience anyway. The only difference would be that I know how to solve problems efficiently. Well, I guess so. I mean, we begged for action against art theft in SL(We ask them this like they owned it, silly us.) and all they did was remove a shit load of stuff from a reputable designer’s inventory and store that had the word ‘Marilyn’ in it. Because everyone knows that ‘Marilyn’ is a copyrighted name. I owe them fifteen bucks for saying it twice already. We say “DEFEND US!” The Lab says: “Duhh, WE ARE REMOVING GENITALS FROM SKINS!” um wat

Before I either A.), throw up my past few meals or B.), just end it all and kill myself from all this pointless, juvenile bullshit, I’m signing off. I’ll see you later when I have more free time. Love, Kendra.

On the brighter side, one of my joys is making people laugh. If I can do that, then I’ve made us both happy. Maybe a little sexually on my part- who knows, let’s see.

Waiting to start my soon to be booming blog, I figured I’d start off with a small leap. Being the benevolent faghag I am, I asked one of my gay ho’s to guest spot on my first post to broadcast our impeccable fashion skills. He is a girlface here, because we’re showing off how delightfully and visually stunning these new skins are. This is definitely the best introductory skin line yet in Second Life, hands down.

Click on pics to enlarge, my lovely cohorts,  and marvel out our astounding beauty.  Our computers suck so don’t mind the quality, but our angelic faces prevail.

If your eyes haven’t bmelted out of your skull from the blinding light of our copious amounts of beauty, you could clearly see that these are worth~ da~ munay~. Did I mention da munnay~ is only 800L?

I promise not every post will be smearing my cheap lipstick on the designer’s ass, but I really have no critiques about this skin. If hand drawn skins are your bag, this is your over the Designer Gucci overnight bag, baby.

Wow. I actually battled my limited attention span, while listening to Meredith Viera’s life story, and finished my first blog post that isn’t making fun of anyone! Even if you hate me dearly, you gotta like, pat me on the back for that one.  I’ll see you next time, lovars. <3.

::Style Notez::

On Tracey-Poo:

Skin: -tb- Hiccup Tan Skin – Swoon (light thick brows)