Last night I dreamed this lady asked me if I'd had any "work" done, which as we all know is code for "who's your plastic surgeon?" (Don't we all know that? Don't we??) And I'm all like, NO, but then later I feel under my jawline and I've got these long lumpy scars, and there's something different about my eyelids, and I'm wearing a blue work shirt, and I realize that I have had work done, and that they did it to me WHILE I WAS IN PRISON. Yes, I'd been to Plastic Surgery State Correctional Institute for Women and Girls and I came out looking fabulous! The sad thing is, I bet there'd be a huge crime wave through Beverly Hills (shoplifting, killing old ladies in crosswalks with Hummers) by women so excited to go to that jail. And in a cruel twist of irony, the judge would send them to Camarillo* instead, and all the women who got convicted for being crack whores would end up going to Beauty Jail and would come out looking like Louise Brooks. Well, if I were king, etc. *grumble grumble*
*I can't explain that link at all, maybe someone can tell me why a band like that was allowed to play for a dance at a mental hospital.