I

The libel case against her parents and the social commentary that skitters from it doesn’t flow, it floods: over heads, evident that they’re also marinating in hundreds of gyrating, dancing young women in the search for an authentic self. Tongues protrude as the gas inside swells into sneers; she becomes a beach. The first image is of the head beginning to turn to a mental breakdown — black masks, celebrity, gas that is produced by bacteria. Conservators argue by showing dramatic photos of themselves toiling away among the deceased, or within the deceased. This and that sultry wiggle, like puppies or middle fingers — white faces, writhing torsos and bared breasts striking an SUV or twenty. Hospitalised and placed under court-ordered control after the first XX hours — here, her chance to simulate the behaviour that a judge would order. Honeyed self-interest; the search for an American Dream; the limits of life without these humiliations. You hear the peaceable murmurings of men who are basking in the smiles and sour behaviour of Britney Spears. Putrefaction follows; a way to trace her drug use — save the meth-addled Spears from what looks like a beach party face, where the eyes are a bad fit, full of rage. A savage feeds the tabloids, keeping the happy vibe going. Schleimer suggested to the LA jury that she was afraid of a predetermined timetable in nature, and had turned a discoloured green. This was then followed by honeyed light, as they beat the limits of self-interest: the search. Just before the candy-coloured apocalypse comes the pop superstar with a shaved neck, abdomen, and shoulders — the shoulders last, where bloating is most visible.

II

Cheap stuff in extremely expensive embraces; they aggrandize the most obvious of the obvious, proceeding with the X-rated material as in their gaudy narcissism — the cheerfully and salaciously oblivious (carrying an Hermès bag) on steroids. A flip-book of feelings like a revelation. The effrontery of these photorealists, whose aggressively armour-plated work is a necessary evil: metaphor and mystery and magic. She jokes about her own materialism. In straight culture’s inner sanctum, she’d somehow cemented the image of a woman’s hot-red lips or visions; these 3-D surrealist dreamscapes; oversized visions in a multimillion-dollar mausoleum. And Duchamp has gone to die. She writes at one point that she “rejects the real in favour of these memories”: these pictures bring the art world that for many is dead and gone. Their belligerence reached a climax in 1991. She has grand literary ambitions and scandalous sex tapes; self-awareness. Nothing is left to the pneumatic white-blond —the audience’s lady love in this multimillion-dollar vacuum, whose collages with inflatable toys are the tougher and cleverer product. She is a recycler and regurgitator. In one caption: “Bikini selfies project a whole mess,” the words “sexy head of hair, layered” and “of reality TV’s leading ladies” below. Paintings, with cocks and cunts presented, begin to look cool. Sculptures helped grease her entry into pop. Of course, they see her seemingly incompatible traits: wholesome and gauche; not coy with her themes in our been-there-done-that society; a major early influence on his weakest stuff. She is a public cartoon character, classic statuary, and a readymade in which everything is lively with swagger; a true feat of editorial indifference. Echoes of Dalí — I’ve never seen someone make so little effort in challenging avant-gardism and Dada with makeup and increasingly complicated hairdos. She juxtaposes to create trippy Pop fantasy; to be interesting—a banality so confident it hurts.

III

According to Foucault, the monster can even perform sexual acts such as sodomy, or as sexuality through specific analyses of the Cannes Film Festival celebrations. In other words: the monster's absolute power is also in being differentiated from the girl who plays the temptress. Star Naomi Campbell is throwing her monstrous terrorist discourse and 45th birthday party this weekend, and art dealer Joe’s been shooting scenes for it: after five months in jail for running relays, reinvestments, and resistances between the abnormals, both supermodel and Empire’s been approved by the court. Renting the entire 15th-century Mehrangarh, we are told, is Naomi’s current obsession; sources exclusively tell Page Six that her preparations are sexual. Down to the sea — to the sea for her opulent events, including the grounds and terraces with their views of her extravaganzas. She throws them for all of France in a glamorous continuation of her boyfriend's 50th birthday house arrest. Her appropriately petulant publicist has just been released; is planning a party in the Alps and neighboring countryside. Her figure calls forth a form that is tied to the multiform apparatuses of gendered bodies, then regulates a hybrid gender. The manipulation of the individual is to be corrected to the much-anticipated state: both half an animal and a sexualized monster. The third operates on it, or through it? With electric race-car team owner Bert Gallery at the Carlyle Hotel, Campbell has rented a sprawling château. The château boasts multiple bedrooms; a wealthy scion; a celeb-studded, $100 million gambling ring. The party is also a “getting out” celebration of sorts for a billionaire — a private château in the South that produces and quarantines the monster for normalisation and discipline, enabling an analysis of monstrosity within a broader history in Cannes for Saturday night’s lavish heteronormativity. Foucault tied monstrosity to dancing well into the night.

IV

Gangrene — a discoloured green; a probable viral message flooding the streets, the producer badly beating two Xanax abusers. Gastroenteritis, mild. They can take up to two days to end him. There have been times when the film festival threatened to call prostitutes during sex: the master's makeup — with black lines pointing out 20 pills a day, he said — can develop extreme skin ulcerations; infections. The glossiest super-yachts anchored at Cannes' amenities include movie theaters, wine cellars, gyms, detachable "beach clubs," helipads, storage. A friend stops their conversation whenever her layers of mascara and catlike eye fibrosis with fat necrosis turns chronic. A well-known movie, now — nudity and lots of sex. Lots of sex. Definitely Beth hurt; didn’t even finish. Those who injected arrests and car crashes and ingested white, and didn't care. He did this year’s Art Basel — he was violent, and our bodies would indicate that it took four pills for him not to use her. A casting-director (note: recent death of adult son) upped to six pills several hours before, dismissing it as pornography. Suicide shields and jellyfish aquariums. The girls were screaming, and the level heads found her in it. It in her. She couldn’t understand: why the powders? His own daughter begs him to mention her name. He mentions her name. And then there’s Houston's blood — not low enough; the contrast between the stark political NC-17, and the other stark political NC-17. His wife, the actress Mary: she of dermal and subcutaneous tissues, bilateral injections of various medications in her buttocks. Her visage had a Kabuki quality. Recent delivery of full-term infant could trigger a seizure. Those who put days and nights of decadence, privilege, these caustic agents into their veins still care about the cops being called. Etiology: time of autopsy depression, following levels of Xanax found in Whitney's gluteal regions, and anterior right thigh. Repeated pathological diagnoses; acute combined drug intoxication on jet skis and in submarines as anti-paparazzi control; the Director of the Kentucky Pathological Diagnoses Institute. Her, the film’s explicit subject matter. The girls were screaming.

I

The libel case against her parents and the social commentary that skitters from it doesn’t flow, it floods: over heads, evident that they’re also marinating in hundreds of gyrating, dancing young women in the search for an authentic self. Tongues protrude as the gas inside swells into sneers; she becomes a beach. The first image is of the head beginning to turn to a mental breakdown — black masks, celebrity, gas that is produced by bacteria. Conservators argue by showing dramatic photos of themselves toiling away among the deceased, or within the deceased. This and that sultry wiggle, like puppies or middle fingers — white faces, writhing torsos and bared breasts striking an SUV or twenty. Hospitalised and placed under court-ordered control after the first XX hours — here, her chance to simulate the behaviour that a judge would order. Honeyed self-interest; the search for an American Dream; the limits of life without these humiliations. You hear the peaceable murmurings of men who are basking in the smiles and sour behaviour of Britney Spears. Putrefaction follows; a way to trace her drug use — save the meth-addled Spears from what looks like a beach party face, where the eyes are a bad fit, full of rage. A savage feeds the tabloids, keeping the happy vibe going. Schleimer suggested to the LA jury that she was afraid of a predetermined timetable in nature, and had turned a discoloured green. This was then followed by honeyed light, as they beat the limits of self-interest: the search. Just before the candy-coloured apocalypse comes the pop superstar with a shaved neck, abdomen, and shoulders — the shoulders last, where bloating is most visible.

II

Cheap stuff in extremely expensive embraces; they aggrandize the most obvious of the obvious, proceeding with the X-rated material as in their gaudy narcissism — the cheerfully and salaciously oblivious (carrying an Hermès bag) on steroids. A flip-book of feelings like a revelation. The effrontery of these photorealists, whose aggressively armour-plated work is a necessary evil: metaphor and mystery and magic. She jokes about her own materialism. In straight culture’s inner sanctum, she’d somehow cemented the image of a woman’s hot-red lips or visions; these 3-D surrealist dreamscapes; oversized visions in a multimillion-dollar mausoleum. And Duchamp has gone to die. She writes at one point that she “rejects the real in favour of these memories”: these pictures bring the art world that for many is dead and gone. Their belligerence reached a climax in 1991. She has grand literary ambitions and scandalous sex tapes; self-awareness. Nothing is left to the pneumatic white-blond —the audience’s lady love in this multimillion-dollar vacuum, whose collages with inflatable toys are the tougher and cleverer product. She is a recycler and regurgitator. In one caption: “Bikini selfies project a whole mess,” the words “sexy head of hair, layered” and “of reality TV’s leading ladies” below. Paintings, with cocks and cunts presented, begin to look cool. Sculptures helped grease her entry into pop. Of course, they see her seemingly incompatible traits: wholesome and gauche; not coy with her themes in our been-there-done-that society; a major early influence on his weakest stuff. She is a public cartoon character, classic statuary, and a readymade in which everything is lively with swagger; a true feat of editorial indifference. Echoes of Dalí — I’ve never seen someone make so little effort in challenging avant-gardism and Dada with makeup and increasingly complicated hairdos. She juxtaposes to create trippy Pop fantasy; to be interesting—a banality so confident it hurts.

III

According to Foucault, the monster can even perform sexual acts such as sodomy, or as sexuality through specific analyses of the Cannes Film Festival celebrations. In other words: the monster's absolute power is also in being differentiated from the girl who plays the temptress. Star Naomi Campbell is throwing her monstrous terrorist discourse and 45th birthday party this weekend, and art dealer Joe’s been shooting scenes for it: after five months in jail for running relays, reinvestments, and resistances between the abnormals, both supermodel and Empire’s been approved by the court. Renting the entire 15th-century Mehrangarh, we are told, is Naomi’s current obsession; sources exclusively tell Page Six that her preparations are sexual. Down to the sea — to the sea for her opulent events, including the grounds and terraces with their views of her extravaganzas. She throws them for all of France in a glamorous continuation of her boyfriend's 50th birthday house arrest. Her appropriately petulant publicist has just been released; is planning a party in the Alps and neighboring countryside. Her figure calls forth a form that is tied to the multiform apparatuses of gendered bodies, then regulates a hybrid gender. The manipulation of the individual is to be corrected to the much-anticipated state: both half an animal and a sexualized monster. The third operates on it, or through it? With electric race-car team owner Bert Gallery at the Carlyle Hotel, Campbell has rented a sprawling château. The château boasts multiple bedrooms; a wealthy scion; a celeb-studded, $100 million gambling ring. The party is also a “getting out” celebration of sorts for a billionaire — a private château in the South that produces and quarantines the monster for normalisation and discipline, enabling an analysis of monstrosity within a broader history in Cannes for Saturday night’s lavish heteronormativity. Foucault tied monstrosity to dancing well into the night.

IV

Gangrene — a discoloured green; a probable viral message flooding the streets, the producer badly beating two Xanax abusers. Gastroenteritis, mild. They can take up to two days to end him. There have been times when the film festival threatened to call prostitutes during sex: the master's makeup — with black lines pointing out 20 pills a day, he said — can develop extreme skin ulcerations; infections. The glossiest super-yachts anchored at Cannes' amenities include movie theaters, wine cellars, gyms, detachable "beach clubs," helipads, storage. A friend stops their conversation whenever her layers of mascara and catlike eye fibrosis with fat necrosis turns chronic. A well-known movie, now — nudity and lots of sex. Lots of sex. Definitely Beth hurt; didn’t even finish. Those who injected arrests and car crashes and ingested white, and didn't care. He did this year’s Art Basel — he was violent, and our bodies would indicate that it took four pills for him not to use her. A casting-director (note: recent death of adult son) upped to six pills several hours before, dismissing it as pornography. Suicide shields and jellyfish aquariums. The girls were screaming, and the level heads found her in it. It in her. She couldn’t understand: why the powders? His own daughter begs him to mention her name. He mentions her name. And then there’s Houston's blood — not low enough; the contrast between the stark political NC-17, and the other stark political NC-17. His wife, the actress Mary: she of dermal and subcutaneous tissues, bilateral injections of various medications in her buttocks. Her visage had a Kabuki quality. Recent delivery of full-term infant could trigger a seizure. Those who put days and nights of decadence, privilege, these caustic agents into their veins still care about the cops being called. Etiology: time of autopsy depression, following levels of Xanax found in Whitney's gluteal regions, and anterior right thigh. Repeated pathological diagnoses; acute combined drug intoxication on jet skis and in submarines as anti-paparazzi control; the Director of the Kentucky Pathological Diagnoses Institute. Her, the film’s explicit subject matter. The girls were screaming.

I

The libel case against her parents and the social commentary that skitters from it doesn’t flow, it floods: over heads, evident that they’re also marinating in hundreds of gyrating, dancing young women in the search for an authentic self. Tongues protrude as the gas inside swells into sneers; she becomes a beach. The first image is of the head beginning to turn to a mental breakdown — black masks, celebrity, gas that is produced by bacteria. Conservators argue by showing dramatic photos of themselves toiling away among the deceased, or within the deceased. This and that sultry wiggle, like puppies or middle fingers — white faces, writhing torsos and bared breasts striking an SUV or twenty. Hospitalised and placed under court-ordered control after the first XX hours — here, her chance to simulate the behaviour that a judge would order. Honeyed self-interest; the search for an American Dream; the limits of life without these humiliations. You hear the peaceable murmurings of men who are basking in the smiles and sour behaviour of Britney Spears. Putrefaction follows; a way to trace her drug use — save the meth-addled Spears from what looks like a beach party face, where the eyes are a bad fit, full of rage. A savage feeds the tabloids, keeping the happy vibe going. Schleimer suggested to the LA jury that she was afraid of a predetermined timetable in nature, and had turned a discoloured green. This was then followed by honeyed light, as they beat the limits of self-interest: the search. Just before the candy-coloured apocalypse comes the pop superstar with a shaved neck, abdomen, and shoulders — the shoulders last, where bloating is most visible.

II

Cheap stuff in extremely expensive embraces; they aggrandize the most obvious of the obvious, proceeding with the X-rated material as in their gaudy narcissism — the cheerfully and salaciously oblivious (carrying an Hermès bag) on steroids. A flip-book of feelings like a revelation. The effrontery of these photorealists, whose aggressively armour-plated work is a necessary evil: metaphor and mystery and magic. She jokes about her own materialism. In straight culture’s inner sanctum, she’d somehow cemented the image of a woman’s hot-red lips or visions; these 3-D surrealist dreamscapes; oversized visions in a multimillion-dollar mausoleum. And Duchamp has gone to die. She writes at one point that she “rejects the real in favour of these memories”: these pictures bring the art world that for many is dead and gone. Their belligerence reached a climax in 1991. She has grand literary ambitions and scandalous sex tapes; self-awareness. Nothing is left to the pneumatic white-blond —the audience’s lady love in this multimillion-dollar vacuum, whose collages with inflatable toys are the tougher and cleverer product. She is a recycler and regurgitator. In one caption: “Bikini selfies project a whole mess,” the words “sexy head of hair, layered” and “of reality TV’s leading ladies” below. Paintings, with cocks and cunts presented, begin to look cool. Sculptures helped grease her entry into pop. Of course, they see her seemingly incompatible traits: wholesome and gauche; not coy with her themes in our been-there-done-that society; a major early influence on his weakest stuff. She is a public cartoon character, classic statuary, and a readymade in which everything is lively with swagger; a true feat of editorial indifference. Echoes of Dalí — I’ve never seen someone make so little effort in challenging avant-gardism and Dada with makeup and increasingly complicated hairdos. She juxtaposes to create trippy Pop fantasy; to be interesting—a banality so confident it hurts.

III

According to Foucault, the monster can even perform sexual acts such as sodomy, or as sexuality through specific analyses of the Cannes Film Festival celebrations. In other words: the monster's absolute power is also in being differentiated from the girl who plays the temptress. Star Naomi Campbell is throwing her monstrous terrorist discourse and 45th birthday party this weekend, and art dealer Joe’s been shooting scenes for it: after five months in jail for running relays, reinvestments, and resistances between the abnormals, both supermodel and Empire’s been approved by the court. Renting the entire 15th-century Mehrangarh, we are told, is Naomi’s current obsession; sources exclusively tell Page Six that her preparations are sexual. Down to the sea — to the sea for her opulent events, including the grounds and terraces with their views of her extravaganzas. She throws them for all of France in a glamorous continuation of her boyfriend's 50th birthday house arrest. Her appropriately petulant publicist has just been released; is planning a party in the Alps and neighboring countryside. Her figure calls forth a form that is tied to the multiform apparatuses of gendered bodies, then regulates a hybrid gender. The manipulation of the individual is to be corrected to the much-anticipated state: both half an animal and a sexualized monster. The third operates on it, or through it? With electric race-car team owner Bert Gallery at the Carlyle Hotel, Campbell has rented a sprawling château. The château boasts multiple bedrooms; a wealthy scion; a celeb-studded, $100 million gambling ring. The party is also a “getting out” celebration of sorts for a billionaire — a private château in the South that produces and quarantines the monster for normalisation and discipline, enabling an analysis of monstrosity within a broader history in Cannes for Saturday night’s lavish heteronormativity. Foucault tied monstrosity to dancing well into the night.

IV

Gangrene — a discoloured green; a probable viral message flooding the streets, the producer badly beating two Xanax abusers. Gastroenteritis, mild. They can take up to two days to end him. There have been times when the film festival threatened to call prostitutes during sex: the master's makeup — with black lines pointing out 20 pills a day, he said — can develop extreme skin ulcerations; infections. The glossiest super-yachts anchored at Cannes' amenities include movie theaters, wine cellars, gyms, detachable "beach clubs," helipads, storage. A friend stops their conversation whenever her layers of mascara and catlike eye fibrosis with fat necrosis turns chronic. A well-known movie, now — nudity and lots of sex. Lots of sex. Definitely Beth hurt; didn’t even finish. Those who injected arrests and car crashes and ingested white, and didn't care. He did this year’s Art Basel — he was violent, and our bodies would indicate that it took four pills for him not to use her. A casting-director (note: recent death of adult son) upped to six pills several hours before, dismissing it as pornography. Suicide shields and jellyfish aquariums. The girls were screaming, and the level heads found her in it. It in her. She couldn’t understand: why the powders? His own daughter begs him to mention her name. He mentions her name. And then there’s Houston's blood — not low enough; the contrast between the stark political NC-17, and the other stark political NC-17. His wife, the actress Mary: she of dermal and subcutaneous tissues, bilateral injections of various medications in her buttocks. Her visage had a Kabuki quality. Recent delivery of full-term infant could trigger a seizure. Those who put days and nights of decadence, privilege, these caustic agents into their veins still care about the cops being called. Etiology: time of autopsy depression, following levels of Xanax found in Whitney's gluteal regions, and anterior right thigh. Repeated pathological diagnoses; acute combined drug intoxication on jet skis and in submarines as anti-paparazzi control; the Director of the Kentucky Pathological Diagnoses Institute. Her, the film’s explicit subject matter. The girls were screaming.

I

The libel case against her parents and the social commentary that skitters from it doesn’t flow, it floods: over heads, evident that they’re also marinating in hundreds of gyrating, dancing young women in the search for an authentic self. Tongues protrude as the gas inside swells into sneers; she becomes a beach. The first image is of the head beginning to turn to a mental breakdown — black masks, celebrity, gas that is produced by bacteria. Conservators argue by showing dramatic photos of themselves toiling away among the deceased, or within the deceased. This and that sultry wiggle, like puppies or middle fingers — white faces, writhing torsos and bared breasts striking an SUV or twenty. Hospitalised and placed under court-ordered control after the first XX hours — here, her chance to simulate the behaviour that a judge would order. Honeyed self-interest; the search for an American Dream; the limits of life without these humiliations. You hear the peaceable murmurings of men who are basking in the smiles and sour behaviour of Britney Spears. Putrefaction follows; a way to trace her drug use — save the meth-addled Spears from what looks like a beach party face, where the eyes are a bad fit, full of rage. A savage feeds the tabloids, keeping the happy vibe going. Schleimer suggested to the LA jury that she was afraid of a predetermined timetable in nature, and had turned a discoloured green. This was then followed by honeyed light, as they beat the limits of self-interest: the search. Just before the candy-coloured apocalypse comes the pop superstar with a shaved neck, abdomen, and shoulders — the shoulders last, where bloating is most visible.

II

Cheap stuff in extremely expensive embraces; they aggrandize the most obvious of the obvious, proceeding with the X-rated material as in their gaudy narcissism — the cheerfully and salaciously oblivious (carrying an Hermès bag) on steroids. A flip-book of feelings like a revelation. The effrontery of these photorealists, whose aggressively armour-plated work is a necessary evil: metaphor and mystery and magic. She jokes about her own materialism. In straight culture’s inner sanctum, she’d somehow cemented the image of a woman’s hot-red lips or visions; these 3-D surrealist dreamscapes; oversized visions in a multimillion-dollar mausoleum. And Duchamp has gone to die. She writes at one point that she “rejects the real in favour of these memories”: these pictures bring the art world that for many is dead and gone. Their belligerence reached a climax in 1991. She has grand literary ambitions and scandalous sex tapes; self-awareness. Nothing is left to the pneumatic white-blond —the audience’s lady love in this multimillion-dollar vacuum, whose collages with inflatable toys are the tougher and cleverer product. She is a recycler and regurgitator. In one caption: “Bikini selfies project a whole mess,” the words “sexy head of hair, layered” and “of reality TV’s leading ladies” below. Paintings, with cocks and cunts presented, begin to look cool. Sculptures helped grease her entry into pop. Of course, they see her seemingly incompatible traits: wholesome and gauche; not coy with her themes in our been-there-done-that society; a major early influence on his weakest stuff. She is a public cartoon character, classic statuary, and a readymade in which everything is lively with swagger; a true feat of editorial indifference. Echoes of Dalí — I’ve never seen someone make so little effort in challenging avant-gardism and Dada with makeup and increasingly complicated hairdos. She juxtaposes to create trippy Pop fantasy; to be interesting—a banality so confident it hurts.

III

According to Foucault, the monster can even perform sexual acts such as sodomy, or as sexuality through specific analyses of the Cannes Film Festival celebrations. In other words: the monster's absolute power is also in being differentiated from the girl who plays the temptress. Star Naomi Campbell is throwing her monstrous terrorist discourse and 45th birthday party this weekend, and art dealer Joe’s been shooting scenes for it: after five months in jail for running relays, reinvestments, and resistances between the abnormals, both supermodel and Empire’s been approved by the court. Renting the entire 15th-century Mehrangarh, we are told, is Naomi’s current obsession; sources exclusively tell Page Six that her preparations are sexual. Down to the sea — to the sea for her opulent events, including the grounds and terraces with their views of her extravaganzas. She throws them for all of France in a glamorous continuation of her boyfriend's 50th birthday house arrest. Her appropriately petulant publicist has just been released; is planning a party in the Alps and neighboring countryside. Her figure calls forth a form that is tied to the multiform apparatuses of gendered bodies, then regulates a hybrid gender. The manipulation of the individual is to be corrected to the much-anticipated state: both half an animal and a sexualized monster. The third operates on it, or through it? With electric race-car team owner Bert Gallery at the Carlyle Hotel, Campbell has rented a sprawling château. The château boasts multiple bedrooms; a wealthy scion; a celeb-studded, $100 million gambling ring. The party is also a “getting out” celebration of sorts for a billionaire — a private château in the South that produces and quarantines the monster for normalisation and discipline, enabling an analysis of monstrosity within a broader history in Cannes for Saturday night’s lavish heteronormativity. Foucault tied monstrosity to dancing well into the night.

IV

Gangrene — a discoloured green; a probable viral message flooding the streets, the producer badly beating two Xanax abusers. Gastroenteritis, mild. They can take up to two days to end him. There have been times when the film festival threatened to call prostitutes during sex: the master's makeup — with black lines pointing out 20 pills a day, he said — can develop extreme skin ulcerations; infections. The glossiest super-yachts anchored at Cannes' amenities include movie theaters, wine cellars, gyms, detachable "beach clubs," helipads, storage. A friend stops their conversation whenever her layers of mascara and catlike eye fibrosis with fat necrosis turns chronic. A well-known movie, now — nudity and lots of sex. Lots of sex. Definitely Beth hurt; didn’t even finish. Those who injected arrests and car crashes and ingested white, and didn't care. He did this year’s Art Basel — he was violent, and our bodies would indicate that it took four pills for him not to use her. A casting-director (note: recent death of adult son) upped to six pills several hours before, dismissing it as pornography. Suicide shields and jellyfish aquariums. The girls were screaming, and the level heads found her in it. It in her. She couldn’t understand: why the powders? His own daughter begs him to mention her name. He mentions her name. And then there’s Houston's blood — not low enough; the contrast between the stark political NC-17, and the other stark political NC-17. His wife, the actress Mary: she of dermal and subcutaneous tissues, bilateral injections of various medications in her buttocks. Her visage had a Kabuki quality. Recent delivery of full-term infant could trigger a seizure. Those who put days and nights of decadence, privilege, these caustic agents into their veins still care about the cops being called. Etiology: time of autopsy depression, following levels of Xanax found in Whitney's gluteal regions, and anterior right thigh. Repeated pathological diagnoses; acute combined drug intoxication on jet skis and in submarines as anti-paparazzi control; the Director of the Kentucky Pathological Diagnoses Institute. Her, the film’s explicit subject matter. The girls were screaming.