Jason Derulo - Cheyenne Bubbling Under
This Week - Last Week - Two Weeks Ago - Weeks - Title, Artist - Peak
14 - 0 - New - 1 - Cheyenne, Jason Derulo - 14
*click*
The camera on Madonna's iPhone 3 (she doesn't feel confident using any newer technology) takes yet another in a long line of selfies over the course of the day. She carefully inspects the result. Her eyes narrow, carefully scrutinising any wrinkles and blemishes she can find on her experienced face. One of her homosexuals passes by and glimpses at the photo over her shoulder.
"Oh honey that's fine, we can edit those raven feet right out of there" he drawls, carrying a box of glitter and lace bras over to an overflowing closet.
Madonna pouts and throws the phone onto a leather sofa dismissively. "You do it, I can't be bothered to work out the filters right now." Her voice dips in and out of a questionable southern English accent.
"Of course your majesty" her assistant says in mock courtesy. He and the former Queen of Pop both smirk affectionately at each other, before she sends him out of the room and shuts the door with rather unnecessary force.
Madonna crosses the decadent lounge to the computer desk, making sure to avoid glancing into any mirrors on the way. The computer is permanently switched on (to provide ease of access) and Madonna confidently opens up a browser. She briefly scrolls through her Twitter feed, but not for too long; most people bore her dreadfully. She opens up a website titled "kworb.net" which she has bookmarked, and searches for anything with her name on it.
Ctrl+F: No results found
Ms Ciccone tuts loudly, and looks for Rebel Heart, Living For Love, and Bitch I'm Madonna on the various charts. When searching for the latter song, she thinks back fondly to the shooting of its music video (her back and hips twinge as if it were yesterday) She enjoyed "partying it down" with the paid extras, even if she had to endure Rita Ora's desperate and clingy company.
She is outraged at the minimal chart placings her current material is doing, only topping the lists in places like "Andorra" "Sri Lanka" or (she shudders) "Democratic Republic of Congo". Her older material isn't doing much better.
Madonna slams her hands down on the table. "Why aren't people buying my music?!" She exclaims bitterly. "I'm giving them everything they want! Hot beats! Colours and lights! Sex appeal! What more can I do? I even risked my life for the ****ing British wankers!" The English profanity sounds forced in her fluctuating accent. She thinks back in horror to that mortifying evening, and rubs her neck surreptitiously.
The wardrobe team suffered dearly that night, their tortured screams soothed her beleaguered bones.
She returns to Twitter, to see the hashtag "No Sleeep" trending. Curious, she follows a link to view the newly released music video by Janet Jackson. The "Vogue" songstress scoffs, "Why do my failed contemporaries keep trying?" She wonders. "I thought I was rid of that exhibitionist banshee." She clicks play and turns up the speakers.
A cool slow beat fills the room, with smooth and sultry vocals filling the air. As Madonna watches Ms Jackson effortlessly pull off a sexy, classy and sophisticated atmosphere, her eyes widen into a seething glare, her brittle skin tightens and her enlarged cheeks flush.
Her daughter Lourdes, drawn by the pleasant music, enters the room, swaying her body in time with the beat. "Wow mom who is this? You're finally listening to good music for a change."
Madonna whips around. "Don't you have homework to do???" She screeches. "If I ever catch you listening to this narcotic harpy you'll be very sorry!"
Lourdes rolls her eyes and saunters out, taking out her phone to access the iTunes Store and add another sale to Ms Jackson's discography.
Madonna angrily shuts the browser and switches off the computer (successfully for the first time in weeks), storms over to the sofa and drops down onto it, draping a towel across her face to cool her down. As she tries to get the catchy earworm out of her head, one of her purchased African children timidly approaches her, asking for food. Madge sharply informs her that she may receive dinner from the chefs if the houseplants were sufficiently watered.
I haven't written Madonna fanfiction because I can't think of anything outrageous enough to sound like a parody. You can describe her as the most ridiculous, pathetic, desperate clown clinging to her youth and it will feel like you're recounting her actual antics, not exaggerating or embellishing the truth.
Rock N Roll is kinda the greatest song/video of all time. When will Taylord serve a song that anthemic? At least it was a hit in some Asian countries who are clearly far ahead of the Western Hemisphere.
There is truth here. Advil is a joke but her songs are big fun really. Girlfriend and What the Hell are better than any Traylor song
Jason Derulo - Cheyenne Bubbling Under
This Week - Last Week - Two Weeks Ago - Weeks - Title, Artist - Peak
14 - 0 - New - 1 - Cheyenne, Jason Derulo - 14
Kworb, I don't think I know your thoughts on the Taylor vs. Nicki situation. Whose side are you on?
Do you agree with Nicki Minaj or was Taylor Swift in the right in responding to her?
Your answer will determine whether I want you dead or alive.
...Vin
Very much against Nicki and her dumb rant, and neutral towards Taylor, she should've never sent those tweets, especially the catty one.
Also very disappointed by the media and very disappointed by the aftermath. Disappointed by ATRL's servers, ATRL's community. Overall there was nothing good about the whole debacle. I didn't enjoy any of it.
I haven't written Madonna fanfiction because I can't think of anything outrageous enough to sound like a parody. You can describe her as the most ridiculous, pathetic, desperate clown clinging to her youth and it will feel like you're recounting her actual antics, not exaggerating or embellishing the truth.
Is it not the intention to sound realistic? It's easy to write because you don't have to use your imagination that much.
There is no diamond, no award, nothing I ever wanted more than a memory of my brief friendship with McQueen. I am sad every day that I enter my closet, knowing he is not here anymore to dazzle the world with his beautiful, dark, limitless, brave mind. These shoes are the only tangible piece I have left of our work together. They came to me this morning, after a dream I had again about him. As the dream goes, I enter my closet and his clothes are no longer there. I'm tortured. The loss is deep. Mourning in my own way constantly, why he is gone, he was so talented. I hate the empty space, not only in fashion, but in the creative consciousness that fizzled when he passed. This morning I got the call I would now be the caregiver to 3 pairs of armadillo platforms, just like the kind I wore in the "Bad Romance" video, the shoes from his crescendo collection "Plato's Atlantis," the ones that made everyone gasp from the front row because they had NEVER seen something like them before. I was reminded this morning that he is still here. He is everywhere. In every store window. In the designs of commercial mainstream retail, fashion, in music, in the heart of every young designer that wishes he could be as free and as fearless as McQueen was. I cried all morning, convinced he was with me. Convinced that I'm loved from somewhere far beyond the eternal body and mind, outside of all the chaos. He wanted me to have them. They made their way back to me. I am here today not just because of my talent, but because he believed in me. My weird brand of art pop manic expression of my emotions was the part of me he knew he taught me. I will be grateful long after I pass and join him wherever it is they put souls like us. Long live McQueen.
Gaga's V Magazine article about Alexander McQueen sounds exactly like one of Nicole's fan fictions
Love Godga's crazy ass
I kept imagining her reading it like this and me looking at her just like the interviewer.
The real loser of this debate is katy, she waited months to throw some shade and now that nicki and taylor are cool she just looks like an idiot, poor acne
Quote:
Originally posted by Ina Garten
Well damn serving highs and thighs...and slanted eyes. Does she know the chief
Is it not the intention to sound realistic? It's easy to write because you don't have to use your imagination that much.
I figured it would work better if from the POV of the help. Finish it:
Alejandra Mendoza (52) climbs the spiraling marble staircase carrying a heavy tray. It's still dark outside. The house feels cold, like its owner. Alejandra is nervous. It's her first day. She has been prepped for this all week by a group of young Latino dancers with rock-hard abs and plucked eyebrows, but she still feels knots in her stomach. Her predecessor, Guadalupe, was unavailable to train her -- she had quit suddenly, after a heavy vase was thrown at her head. Guadalupe did not press charges, because doing so would have meant revealing her immigration status to the authorities.
Alejandra is out of breath when she reaches the top of the staircase. She knows she can't screw this up. Like Guadalupe, she also doesn't have a green card. And she desperately needs this job so she can send money back to Tijuana to her 8 children and 19 grandchildren.
She enters the master bedroom and sets down the tray. From every corner, dead women stare down at her. Large portraits covering the walls: Marilyn Monroe, Edith Piaff, Marlene Dietrich, Jean Harlow, Greta Garbo, Jane Rusell. The effect is unsettling.
Like the lisping dancers had instructed her, Alejandra throws a sheet over every mirror in the large, opulent room. She checks her watch. It's 6am. She walks over to the bed, where a blonde woman sleeps facedown. Alejandra gently nudges her awake. The woman groggily opens her eyes and sits up.
"Oh Seņorita Madonna, you is looking so young!" Alejandra says just as the catwalking dancers had instructed, just as she had practiced all week. "Ay Dios Mio, you looks just like the virgin song. I thinking it's 1985!" She crosses herself for dramatic effect, like she just witnessed a miracle from God.
Madonna removes the contraption around her head designed to pull back her skin while she sleeps. She also removes the tape covering and pulling back her frown lines, crows feet, laugh lines and chin.
A bare-faced Madonna regards Alejandra with disinterest.
Ay Dios Mio! Alejandro repeats, but this time in her head. She fights the urge to jump back in fright. She is reminded of the nocturnal creatures in that movie her 12-year-old daughter Maria was watching back in TJ while breastfeeding her son (The Descent).
"Where is my organic Maharaja Chai Rooibos Rejuvenating Black Tea mixed with raw age-defying Moroccan Mint Pu-erh?" Madonna demands in a British accent horrendous in its misplaced dexterity.
"Si Seņora," Alejandra says, taking a cup of tea from the tray and handing it to Madonna. A veiny, withered claw snatches the cup from Alejandra.
Very much against Nicki and her dumb rant, and neutral towards Taylor, she should've never sent those tweets, especially the catty one.
Also very disappointed by the media and very disappointed by the aftermath. Disappointed by ATRL's servers, ATRL's community. Overall there was nothing good about the whole debacle. I didn't enjoy any of it.
Very diplomatic answer. I still want you breathing. The media was backed into a corner with Minaj's race allegations, so they gently complied and "supported" her. But it's the fake kind of support, like when those annoying people fake-support to make themselves look good by posting an empty "supportive" message like "thoughts and prayers go out to those affected" on Twitter or Facebook about something terrible that's happened around the world, like an earthquake or tsunami or shooting blacks. That's what the media was doing with Nicki Minaj. They were pretending to support her, just to make themselves look good, when, in reality, the media wants Minaj dead, just like everyone else wants her dead.
