BabySkinGlove . . . because you can't afford anything else.
After two years of faithful service and pure devotion, our beloved purple suitcase has found her end. The strains of our last show were too much for her, her death was untimely and she will never be 4gotten. 
In loving memory of Birthday Sex whose spirit rests in the hands of the Colorado punk scene...as one strange little-willied Willy put it, "But we can just have regular sex!" FAIL. You CANNOT have regular sex once you've had BIRTHDAY SEX. It's not an act, it's an inspiration.
It was an anything but typical Friday nite when us 15 (minus one) boygirls piled in2 the ghost of the big red box with hundreds of flammable pots and pans made in2 candle cups and altar cozies with the grace of Frida on our shoulders to comesur8 and contempl8 our gr8 boygirl loss. The puppy pile is one puppy penis short this summer and we had the change in our jars shaking in sorrow to let everyone know.
After a little Andre @ VillaVulvaDiva where we w8ed 4 the sun to set and the acryllix to dry, we reflected upon all the fatties out there lighting their own baby candles 4 their own babies gone.
The flowers were stolen, the paper mached, the tinsel hung around the shaman's wrists like a noose around an anorexic's neck as we wailed till our hearts could wail no more.
We did that thing with pumpkin seeds that you're mother always frowned upon. We did that Rude Rude Boygirl ride that even Rhianna can't master. We kept our hair (grown and borrowed) all wound up in ribbons just like the punx do out West. All in the name of the wedded ded.
