"It's pronounced Keh-shuh, whore. Do you see two e's? Didn't think so," the freshly drunken Jen told Sarah.
"Like I cay-er. Uh . . . why are we seein' this friggin' concert, anyway?" Sarah responded.
"It was either that or like, some stupid emo shit," answered Katie. "I just listened to some of Animal -- it's really good . . . it's catchy and like, really good."
"T'be honest, 'Tik Tok' is good . . . when she wakes up in the morning with Jack. Um, and then she was on some Flo Boy song. We shouldn't of drank that much, gals -- zzzzzzz," Sarah said.
Jill smiled at Sarah and spoke: "LOL, Sarebear. You had like, like seven shots. Shut the f --"
"No, ma'am, I had six. Get your facts right or else you're ugly and like, a whore," Sarah replied.
"When life gives you liquor, lick her, in a sexual way. Not just for kicks, ya know," exclaimed Miss Marina C. What ever you're thinking happened next, happened next.
The flirtatious and embarrassingly-intoxicated young ladies traversed Brooklyn's streets in search of The Knitting Factory, where Miss Kesha was to deliver an intimate concert for her New York fans. Jen was decked out in an eerie grey Banana Republic sweater, maroon Coach gloves, and last season's Nine West black boots. Sarah informally sported an amateurish Kesha shirt, Xhilaration's black-white gloves, and a pair of pretty violet Uggs. Katie's apparel was consistent with that of a dead snake's. Jill wore a thick scarlet Calvin Klein blouse, fiery Burberry boots (purchased third-hand), and a pair of orange mittens which looked a tad dated. Marina C wore a suggestive tube top (Satan's Killhouse, $666), burning red sandals (Lucifer's Loafers, 25 burned ✞s), and a pair of unattractive, pale yellow gloves (Diablo's Deals, 7 corpses.) Oh yes -- all five festive fems sported ridiculous tights from indie retailer We Love Colors. To summarize: never had the world experienced such hideousness from teenage females.
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