Oh, what fun.

The amount of money we are spending on Karl's birthday party is outrageous.  I feel like we could buy a small Eastern European nation for this sum.

That might be fun.  Voguelandia.  We'd just raze everything and build beautiful monuments to the greats in shiny black marble.  Me, Karl, Yves...  and everyone would have to move, of course.  To get Voguelandian citizenship, you'd have to prove that you eat nothing and own at least three pairs of Louboutins.

Anyway, we have a lot of people scurrying about.  Building a closet in the scale that Karl desires is quite an undertaking.  We originally had Zaha Hadid working on it...  but she kept hitting on me.  That beastly woman.  That and when she showed us pictures of what it would look like, we couldn't determine where the door was.  She then pontificated on what the architectural meaning of a door is blah blah blah.  I had her removed from my presence and then Karl and I shredded the pictures and had a confetti fight.

Karl has already fired thirty party planners.  I am very proud of him - usually he lets me fire people for him, while he takes black-and-white photos and plays ominous music from under the table.

I must leave.  Karl invited every underwear model in the fashion industry and I can't tell any of them apart.  Too many beautiful midsections.

BOYS, COME HERE.  IT'S ROLL-CALL TIME.  YOU - YES, YOU, OVER THERE.  YOU'RE WEARING FAR TOO MUCH CLOTHING.