Silence in New York?

— 𝘛𝘦𝘯 𝘰'𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 — [𝘞𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘣 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺?] tumblr.com/suchabasstard/…

I wasn’t gone. I was just watching from the penthouse — and frankly, the performance was underwhelming. The bar got lower. The outfits got worse. The desperation got louder. But don’t worry. Order, taste, and actual standards have returned. Let’s see who can keep up, shall we?

Bazooms? Please. That sounds like something a washed-up lounge singer would say after their third martini. Try again, Archibald.

𝐿'𝒶𝓂𝑜𝓊𝓇

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open.spotify.com/track/1zu2GKHP…

You’re still a complete pain in my ass, 𝘊𝘩𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘉𝘢𝘴𝘴. .

Happy #WCW to me.

Want me more? Please. You’ve wanted me since the back of that limo. The difference is—I don’t hand out repeats to bad actors.

Oh, Basshole, every angle of you is insufferably smug. Every angle of me is perfection and the ones you’ll always chase are the ones I’ll never let you keep.

Did you miss me… or just the way I make things interesting?

None of the above? How original. And yet… here you still are.

Please. Playing dead has always been a Bass specialty. When I disappear, it involves Paris… and excellent taste.

Strategy is never out of season and neither are my shoes.

If your books aren’t annotated, your calendar isn’t full, and your wardrobe isn’t curated and intentional… you’re not fabulous. You’re forgettable. Don’t follow the standard, set it.