Patricia bends over backwards to get you to bend over backwards.
Patricia dots the i's and crosses the t's.
Here's what happened to me, and it's really because it's just us that I'm confiding in you for the first time on this subject.
Exactly 80 years ago, seventeen-year-old Marcel Ravidat, an apprentice mechanic, discovered the entrance to the Lascaux cave thanks to his dog chasing a rabbit.
With autumn just around the corner, I wanted to bring you some of the finest and most refined footwear available.
I'm told I was granted a trial. But it must have been a speedy one, because when it took place, I was still in a deep coma caused by the police officer's rifle butt, which melted over me like margarine in the Sahara sun.
When I emerged safely from house-sitting at the Parker and the heat wave had subsided, my first instinct was to slam back a drink.
My new job as an embalmer, preparing the dead in a pop, glittery way, was working like a charm. Families of the deceased would order the characters they wanted to see their loved ones in one last time. I was allowed to prepare people as Michael Jackson, Kurt Cobain, Homer Simpson or simply as an anonymous cheerleader or soccer player.