Synthetic Diamonds
 

http://czfantasy.com/i/kit/kit.jpg

Just get the whole kit. It's cheap and you can sell it and EARN A FABULOUS PROFIT!

Synthetic Diamonds
 

I think I would buy an A quality for W (which is <Z>Y=Q) dollars, probably with an SM stone.

But then, my X quality and Y dollars weren't much to begin with.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

I am not a jewelry fan. Of diamonds I own a pair of earrings, a pendant and my wedding rings which my husband insisted had to have diamonds in them because he didn't want to look like an ass in front of other people -- I gave in but was able to finally convince him that big stones look gaudy on me and got something tasteful. To me, jewelry is a waste of money. On the other hand, my 61inch TV is way fucking cool and worth every penny.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

Unfortunately, that may be a positive career move for me right now.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

Born July 24, 1970.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

Right, like buying a Porsche v. Minivan isn't really about driving 55 mph on the freeway.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

I thought about that as i typed. She is in her 30s. I still think that there is something wrong with an otherwise normal (but perhaps not if she dated Robert for 1.5 years) woman over 21 who wants to BE her, to the point of wearing around a jaunty pink cap. Erika took a special pride in pointing out her JLo boots and hat and other attire. I can see picking out elements of someone's style and making them your own. But that just seems weird.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

Vulgarity, even in conjunction with multisyllabic words, is not pretty. Clean it up.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

The statement still works, then.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

b or d. I'm anti-DeBeers after reading a book about the history of the diamond industry years ago.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

She seems otherwise balanced, so I am thinking the I want to BE her came from as a response to a producer's questions.

Queer Guy With a Straight Eye
 

By LOUIS BAYARD


Bravo's "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" may be the hottest show on television right now -- no less an authority than Entertainment Weekly has declared it "summer's breakout hit." But frankly, it's becoming a major problem for some of us out here in the gay community. So, in hopes of turning the lavender tide before anyone else gets swept away, I offer this open letter to the show's producers. Additional signatories welcome.

Hey Guys:

Don't get me wrong. I love the show. Really. The whole "Fab 5" thing, with the glamour homos swooping in on the hapless straight guy and rendering him fit for society, love, career ... It's all a great big 10-gallon hoot and a half. Love the bitchy quips. Love the grooming tips. Love it when the style queens gather in the closing minutes like beer swillers at a sports bar to cheer their boy into the end zone.

But your show is placing enormous pressure on me and on the great silent majority of gay men who (I'm extrapolating here) really aren't that fab. Think -- please think! -- about the message you are conveying to straight America. They come away believing that every homosexual is a hairstylist, runway model, interior designer, oenophile, chef and cultural commissar wrapped up in a form-fitting ribbed tee. It just ain't so.

If I could describe to you the office in which this dispatch is being typed, you would be shocked -- shocked! -- at the level of squalor that a gay man, if he puts his mind to it, can attain. To the wall above me cling the shreds of a wallpaper border that was chosen by a 7-year-old boy -- the son of my house's previous owners. Did I take down this mincing little frieze of choo-choos and sailboats and big baby-blue airplanes and replace it with something more Tuscan or Grecian? I did not. Have I made any sorties against the spider web that has been gathering insect carcasses behind my bookcase since the middle Cambrian Period? I have not. Have I, at any time in the last decade, changed the cat litter that is even now stinging my nostrils with its effluvium? No indeed.

Ah, but that doesn't matter. Gay men are great cooks, right? I mean, it's hard-wired right into our little Calphalon hypothalami, isn't it? Well, yesterday morning, I burned half a rasher of bacon. This was not one of those I-was-distracted-by-a-gunshot-and-a-loud-ungodly-cry kind of situations. No, I was there the whole time, watching the bacon resolve into soot and fume ... strangely helpless to stop it ... waiting, waiting for something -- a smoke alarm, as it turned out -- to jar me into action.

And after I pulled my carbonized fat off the fire? I ate it.

Oh, and you know that tip "Grooming Guru" Kyan gave on a recent episode, about applying hair product from back to front? Tried it. I looked like Speed Racer after he takes off his helmet.

As for this clothes sense that we gay men are alleged to have ... well, I guess you just haven't smelled my sandals lately. You weren't there the other night when I was rifling through my dresser drawer for a single pair of hole-free socks -- I'm still looking. You didn't see the Gap shirt I threw on yesterday, the one so tessellated by wrinkles it seemed to be made of foil. You didn't see me trying to match a red tee to a pair of blue-and-white glen-plaid shorts. Or the look on my partner's face when he stopped me just in time. "The horror," said that look. "The horror."

I haven't shaved in four days. I haven't had my shoes polished in three years. I wouldn't know an exfoliant from an exterminant. Don't you see? I lose this game on all points. And yet, thanks to you and your show, no one will believe me. Loved ones and strangers alike persist in thinking that my brain must be a golden hoard of exotic knowledge. They expect me to know the names of every kind of lily. They expect me to distinguish Tiffany from Baccarat from Sears. They scour my medicine cabinets for moisturizers that have never lived there. My brother called the other day and asked me where I thought interest rates were heading. Interest rates?

If you guys keep driving home this vision of homosexual supercompetence, you will leave me but one alternative: I will have to demand that the Fab 5 come over and remake my life, too. Then you will see that slovenliness knows no sexuality. It droppeth as does the sludgy rain from heaven, afflicting him that loves women and him that loves men.

So come on, Fab 5. Help me be the gay man I should be. And hurry. This cat litter is really starting to reek.

Yours very sincerely,

Queer Guy with a Straight Eye

Synthetic Diamonds
 

Lick my pussy.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

Bitch please.

Synthetic Diamonds
 

Just to list a few of the things we know about you:

big tits, good body, vegetarian, drives an f-body, likes to drink, not materialistic, willing to give blow jobs and have sex a lot, like sports and electronics, seems reasonably smart, makes good money

I'm convinced that you're my secretary's fantasy (of mine) sock. I knew I shouldn't have e-mailed her stuff to post while out of the office. Sandy, when you get a chance, can you come in here and get my time sheets and take these blacklines to Bob in Employee Benefits?