We’re All Tamara Ecclestone
Well, we’re all Tamara Ecclestone without the zillions of dollars of daddy’s money, the $32 million London mansion, the lease agreement on a $125 million Holmby Hills mansion, the wonky nose job, the weave made from the manes of a dozen Arabian ponies, the zero sense of knowing what it’s like to actually earn a dollar for yourself and the anus covered with liquid platinum and canary diamonds (mine’s only covered with yellow-tinted Wite Out and plastic Barbie earrings). Okay, we’re all nothing like Tamara Ecclestone, but I’m sure this was most of us on New Year’s Eve. Replace the fancy bellman with the clerk at 7-Eleven and replace that fancy gold dress with a torn tank top and stained swim shorts, and that was me on New Year’s Eve! I’m pretty sure my mom was behind me making a “Did I actually give birth to a human whose drunk farts smell like that?!” face.
These pictures of the Nicky Hilton of Britain are from the early hours of 2013 (aka 2 days old), but in between yelling at the wild Hawaiian roosters for making rooster noises and making bitchfaces at the loud children at the pool in my mom’s timeshare, I missed them! So I’m bringing them to you way late, because I just can’t resist a picture of a drunk-eyed, messy ho who looks like a plastic Mufasa in bad Leona Lewis drag.
Anyway, I’m back from my Hawaiian vacation so I’d like raise a Bikini Blonde to Lahoma, Sweetas and J. Harvey for sprinkling the foolery on Dlisted while I was off getting a sunburn on my armpit (that happened somehow). And now that I’m back full-time expect 100% more eyebrow appreciation and 90% more grammatical errors. (Yes, I read your posts, J. Harvey. You’re the 10%!)
