bimbo.
she took herself to a party tonight.
a social gathering.
somewhere on the outskirts of the city.
deep into the heart of the suburbs.
supposed to be a cocktail party, but she's got nuthin cocktaily and she feels like shit so why dress like she doesn't? Catherine Zeta-Jones doesn't do self-help or therapy: "I'm a warrior." sitting there, her legs toned and tanned and frosted, a fan blowing her long dyed raven tresses around, chin lifted and staring down her nose into the camera, at bimbo, at the world.
'yeah, what the hell would you need therapy for? you sound like a conceited jackass.'
she puts her beer on top of her face.
catherine's face.
on the magazine cover.
yeah, take that.