July 24, 2003:
Her laugh is like The Penguin on the old Batman TV show. "Weah, weah, weah," like the quack of a sarcastic duck.
Died black hair with a blueish tint, one shock of died-blonde highlight silverish like the Bride of Frankenstein. Leather, leather, leather, pounds and pounds of it, until her footfalls across the parquet floors are like earthquakes caused by giants. Black, black, black, black, from the color of her eyes to the tips of her point-toe motorcycle boots.
The landlord's daughter arrives home lonely from a club after 2am, greets her empty apartment with a cry of despair and the toss of heavy boots against a wall. Cranks up the Marshall stack which your rent bought for her, plugs in the vintage Les Paul which someone else's rent bought for her, sings at the top of her lungs into the Sure stage mic she boosted from a club somewhere. "When I think a-bou-choo I tuch my-self..." Leaving the entire street thinking, "Thank you for sharing..."