Sorry, faithful followers! I’ve been in the Champagne Lounge for five days. On another continent.
I was in Paris entertaining some generous jackasses, falling into cheese comas and swallowing – with completely gratuitous theatrics and enthusiasm – the finest oysters I have ever rested on my tongue and ushered down my esophagus.
I can’t dish all the details because I have to save the juiciest content for my saucy book (that you will not be able to resist buying in triplicate.)
This much I can tell you: Rich Paris is not at all like Poor Paris I experienced five years ago.
If you think I’m crazy, you’re absolutely right. I am fucking insane.
Traveling to another continent with a stranger is highly dangerous and you should never do it. This is precisely the reasoning behind why I do practically everything you read about, reiterating the simple fact that I am not of sound mind. Because that would be boring.
It has also been confirmed by my client that, in addition to being a the most fatal of femmes, I am also a ‘sexist sadist.’ But we already knew that.
I’m exhausted, jet-lagged, and so thankful to be back in my virgin bed (it’s a twin with mismatched bedding).