(cross-posted from Kosher Eucharist)
Sometimes I wonder if the increasingly debilitating pain of having to venture out in public during the daytime might be somewhat alleviated if I could amuse myself with telepathy. What’s going on under the gel-encrusted quills of an ars? Do the Yazam cops realize that the more heat they pack, the more it looks like they’re compensating for spending all day riding on a Kawasaki Ninja built for two? Is there anything at all going on in the Breslovers’ heads beyond the persistent zzt-zzt of two remaining synapses trying desperately, and failing utterly, to connect? And, most intriguing of all, do all those seminary girls know their goddamned skirts are dragging on the ground?
Imagine if you could spend one fine Jerusalem afternoon in the area of the Ben Yehuda midrachov finding out:
The more inexplicable ruffles my skirt has, the more Hashem loves me.
Speaking of my skirt, I know it’s dragging on the ground, but my willingness to ruin my clothing just shows the boys that my daddy has money.
Ohmig-d, is that RIVKAH EISENBERG?! I haven’t seen her in at least two days! I must express my pleasure upon unexpectedly seeing her in public by shrieking her name at the top of my considerable lungs!
Are her elbows uncovered? Slut.
I mean, sure, I’ve been fooling around with Moshe from Neveh…well, and Josh from Neveh…well, okay, the entire 12:30 Gemara shiur from Neveh…but they kept their kippas on during, and I wore the skirt with extra ruffles, so it doesn’t count. I’m still a virgin.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter, what happens in Yerushalayim stays in Yerushalayim.
Ha! Like Las Vegas! I am sooo funny. Wait until I tell Aliza that one.
I wonder why I haven’t got my period yet…
Ohmig-d, is he looking at me? Ohmig-d, he’s cuuuuuuute! And look how long his tzitzis are! His middos must be even more ridiculously outsized!
G-d, my feet are sweating in these Uggs.
That reminds me, I need to go pick up my engraved heart pendant from Hadaya. The fact that I spent several hundred dollars to get my name crudely etched in a misshapen silver heart shows the boys that I have abundant self-esteem, and also that my daddy has money.
Oh, we’re at Fro-Yo. Bleh. I don’t feel like ice cream. Ever since I started throwing up in the mornings last week, I haven’t really been too hungry. I should probably go to the doctor. But for now, maybe cutting back on the ice cream and losing a little weight will be good for me. I swear, my belly is starting to pop out of my ruffles. Fat fat fat.
But at least I’m not like Adina. That denim skirt doesn’t do much to hide her tush. That’s not even ghetto booty. That’s Warsaw booty.
I can’t wait until Zolly’s tonight. I am going to drink, like, eight drinks, and I am going to yell out “WHOOOOOOO!” after every one. I’ll show all the boys my middos. And my boobs.
Ha! Just kidding! I am sooooooo funny.
Speaking of my boobs, have they gotten bigger? Sweet!
I hope I don’t pass out at Zolly’s like last time, though…
I don’t even know whose apartment that was. Good thing I got back in time for morning shiur.
Ohmig-d, cute Israeli soldiers! I should go up to them and say “I love the army!” in Hebrew. The security guard at the sem taught me how. How did it go? Ani mufkeret?
Oh, cell phone’s ringing! Ugh. I need to get a new phone. If I keep this crappy Nokia, how will the boys know my daddy has money?
Hours upon hours of thrills.