Ain't that a shame

I spent yesterday moving my stuff out of storage, my friend's into it. Blah, blah, blah. But on the way to load her stuff, we passed a streetwalker. My girl had on black patent leather 4 inch heels and a gold lamay slip dress. No undergarments, unfortunately. As we passed her she sighe, "Oh my god. My feet is killing me!" I love New York. And my neighborhood.

I'm starting a book called "The Joke's Over" by Ralph Steadman. It's an autobiography about him and Hunter S. Thompson working together back in the day. The introduction reads, "Don't write, Ralph. You'll bring shame on your family." It's a quote from his buddy, Hunter S. Thompson. Good god, can I identify. I have a certain discretion that sometimes I'd love to abandon. Guess I'll have to come up with a phantom identity! Oooooh, fun! Any suggestions out there in the world??