Last night my friend dragged me to some pub filled with middle-aged men that probably earned their living painting and re-painting their mother’s apartment in Queens, maybe they tile her floor for extra pocket change also. This place did not have a single quality cock, which i guess was her plan because she needed a safe place to cry into her beers. My friend kept going on and on about how all the men in NYC are either hot bankers or hot poor artists, and all of them have one goal when it comes to women: fuck ’em and forget them. I have no problem with this, you see, because I am a slut. But I put on a sympathetic face because that’s the kind of friend I am. Secretly i wanted to kick her in the face for picking a dump where there was not one piece of ass to work something out with while she was in the bathroom fixing her running mascara. Bitch.

I went home drunk, horny, and pissed off. I took some ambien and mildly hallucinated to the dancing colors on my computer screen then went to bed, too tired to give the vibrator a round.

So yeah, last night sucked, and the only thing that has to do with this post featuring Anne Hathaway at Letterman last night is that a) her life doesn’t suck, and b) you’d probably like to suck on her nips. At least she took off that fucking “Devil Wears Prada” trench. We get it. You are now some sort of fashion icon. Damnit I need either a pound of prozac or a pound of gold right now. Here is your pound of Anne Hathaway’s cleavage.

Obediently yours,
Sugar Nell (ex-hooker, friend of Jesus)

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