|Source:we heart it|
Wine is my mistress, my lover, my confidant.
Her siren call is for me alone...and the other several million people who partake in her liquidy deliciousness...
It is with her that I, dressed in my Peter Alexander hedgehog pyjama pants, get my Bridget Jones on and sing All By Myself into a rolled up TV guide while simultaneously slopping wine on aforementioned hedgehog pants and jumping onto the leather armchair. The spillage causes a momentary lapse in concentration and reminds me that I am couch surfing on Boyfriend Cakes' chair and that I am not, in fact, all by myself or at least I won't be when he returns home. Thus rendering my Grammy-grade performance moot and relegating me to relative silence to consuming the remainder of my
She smothers me in her warm rosy embrace and I am left dizzy and slightly short of breath. Possibly due to my slight allergy to her tannins, DAMN TANNINS, which cause my sinuses to close up and makes my eyes a little red and a little glassy, just enough to make me look like I have spent the afternoon puffing on a joint. Which I haven't. Its just not my thing and even you, you fabulous Marc Jacobs-ified blunt cannot tempt me.
There are some things that even I won't do in the name of fashion.