Modern Love

As I was walking home this evening- yes, I walk home- it was just down the street and cars have that smell to them. That sort of enclosed, meringue smell. I was walking home, down the glass boulevard where I spied a couple making love in the alleyway. The man took out a notepad, and I heard: "Let's begin this negotiation." The woman, in her red dress and diamond-glass earrings said: "I believe this will last for twenty minutes." The man said "Yes, but could we make it another 5? My sexual organs are out-performing expectations today." The woman lent against the wall, like a starlet on cyanide- she pursed her thin lips, eventually saying "Hm. I suppose that would be acceptable, however efficiency is key." For a moment I was confused- lovemaking has changed a lot since my day, I was thinking. Then another thought passed my mind: "Ah, we are witnessing prostitution. How interesting." I called to one of my ninja-floral-pants-assistants, who was hiding under a pothole. I scolded him for the cliche of his hiding place, and asked him to get a chair. I sat outside the opening of the alleyway, watching this act of lovemaking. It was all very efficient and mechanistic. I eagerly awaited the transaction of the money- wondering Just How Much it costs for a prostitute these days (and which one is the prostitute, hmm? I believe that's what BRAD'S GONE INTO YOU DESERTER. Brad who?)
Yet there was no transaction made. I went up to the woman afterwards*, as I helped her zip up- in all honesty, she could lose a kilogram or two. Not too bad, though- not a model, either. I asked the woman: "Did he pay by credit card?"
"Non Karl" (because everybody knows who I am), "we were making Modern Love."
"Ah.." said I, remembering why I went into asexuality.

*Frankly, I prefer to be surrounded by women. (Hi Belle, Tavi, Lady Amanda, etc). Men want to be me; women simply envy me. It's terrible when somebody wants to be you- especially if they're not paying for the privilege. Imagine if somebody created a fake me? Mon dieu! Mon Coco! Mon Chanel!

Karl's Night

Since I have an email address now, I have been getting emails from all over the place. Every day, my assistant for the computer prints them all out on specially made, tweed Chanel paper. I then make Oragami creatures out of them. Actually I don't remember what I was going to say.
I made a Oragami Chanel suit out of someone's emails today. It was some people from Niagara selling fake Louis Vuitton bags ("now you too can own luxury!"). Maybe I should send it to Marc Jacob's offices. Someone told me this sort of email is called "Spam" which I thought was a sort of food for poor people. Can they email food now?

Anyway, some young lady is interviewing me at some point. Oh, I'm interviewing her. Something like that, hmm? Maybe she should interview me, because I'm bound to be more interesting.

I'm sitting at the dinner table of the French president, whose name I don't remember. The knives and forks are quite good. I quite like these knives and forks. Not sure what I'm going to do with them since I don't eat. I'm going to mail them to my house, and then mail them back.
"Excuse me Carla, do you have a envelope?"
"Oh sure, here you go"
"Thankyou. Your hair is so naive, hmmm?"
"Yes. Thankyou?"

Now I'm exiting the room ("where are you going Karl?" "to Champange land dear!") and depositing the knife and fork I subtly borrowed into the envelope. I write "Karl Lagerfeld" on it, sign it and send it off. In France, only the poor use stamps- so a good way to become rich is to not use stamps, huh?
I put the envelope into the mailbox, and wave my white handkerchief at the passers by. I've seen this done in American movies. They wave out onto the street, and suddenly a yellow car appears out of nowhere. Here in the park I'm in now, it doesn't seem to be happening, so I instruct one of the assistants hoovering around me to get a car to take me to my next social engagement.