According to a gas station attendant in rural Louisianna at four this morning tucked behind the counter and behind my Aleve, giant water bottle, and baggie and BBQ Frito twists, I talk like a valley girl. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to apologize or high five her. I opted for walking backward slowly instead.
… I think her dress is supposed to fan out from the convenient wind into a silhouette of the city-scape. It’s gonna rule.
I fucking hate Photoshop. And sore throats. But not Bookends. Thanks, S&G.