Girls who try to do weird 1940s Lana Turner shit with their hair usually end up looking like the playbill for Murder Mystery Night at the Ft. Lauderdale Dinner Theatre, but letting a wink of it peek out from the top of a motorcycle jacket while everyone else in the city is still a frumpy, sexless Michelin mummy is like combining the first blossoms of Spring with that part in The Wall where the flowers fuck.

Comments