I had to leave and reenter Hong Kong to renew my visa; the siren song of Minsk World Theme park was undeniable, so I headed for Shenzhen. Denied! I was literally walking out of the shadow of the Shenzhen train station when the agency called: "Are you in China yet? OK, good, a client needs to see you in an hour, so come back immediately." Sigh, take out camera, take this picture, stalk right back into the passport control line. The contemptible imbecile responsible for "VIVA BUSH!" could stand to get hip to the Falun Dafa campaign method if you ask me.
Mission: Minsk World cruelly stymied, I've been focusing all my energy on ladyposing, generalized anxiety, and contempt for the craven clumps of nutrient-rich uterine lining that in recent days have been my fellowmodels. Brazililan bitch, are really standing there openly mocking me speaking Spanish on the phone? Why don't you take a soul-searching look down picturesque Sternum Canyon (located between your giant fake tits) and reassure yourself that I'm no threat to your latina sabor. Troika of Russian bitches, when the client provides a bunch of lunchboxes for the models, shouldn't the simple fact that the stereotype of "Russian Bitches" exists so pervasively be reason enough for you not to take three fucking lunch boxes each, then, fearing retaliation from your six colleagues who didn't get one, sneak into the hallway to pick through all of them, finally using the half-eaten rice to stub out your cigarettes? Polish bitch, until you invent a non-cognate for "American," and stop with the elaborate pantomiming of "stupid American applauding enthusiastically," I'm going to understand what you said even if it was in Polish. Hey, perhaps you were trying to come up with such a word, or else you would have heard the client instructing us all to applaud enthusiastically.
When not populated with openly hostile, walking labia majora, runway shows can be so fun. This is by far the blurriest of the series, but the best because everyone got the "gaping mouth" vibe except for ol' Blue Steel in the middle there.
In News of the Food, my boyfriend's coming to visit me in Hong Kong next week, we're going on a beach holiday, and, looking a tad cadaverous, I decided to implement Operation Gain Five Pounds Before Marty Arrives. Is it the sense of duty that suddenly makes eating such a chore? The aforementioned generalized anxiety, perhaps?
Or could Hong Kong food be conspiring against me?
O, Petey Boy, thou sensitively-intestined shih tzu of my youth, yu heung kea chi is my favorite dish as long as I don't think about the puddles of masticated and regurgitated Kibbles 'n' Bits with which you festooned the living room carpet.
Help a tabescent sista out! Oh, nevermind, you are lettuce juice and repugnant wasabi fried dough.
Only thing I ever want is dragonfruit. Every time, but every time I buy one, there's a savvy Hong Konger hunching over the shelf, scrutinizing every single fruit, categorically rejecting ones that look good to me. I tried holding up my dragonfruit selection to one such shopper and asking, "Is this one good?" Receiving a curt- but emphatic!- "No," I've since contented myself with blatantly watching other dragonfruit inspectors narrowing it down, narrowing it down, until they're agonizing between two fruits, then selecting for myself the one they leave behind. I used to choose the brightest pink fruit, but the real indicator of quality is apparently the squeeze- but whether it's firmness or softness that is desirable I haven't a clue.
Look at this brazen botanical genital; don't you want to eat one too now?
And isn't that the last thing you'd expect it to look like inside?! (Note: it tastes like a milder kiwifruit).