5..4...3...2. Yes 2. That is all that's left. And this is where the story ends. Words fall short of explaining the joy ride experienced in the heart of America's captitol. But because every good story must have some sort of end, I, B will try one last time to do justice to The Intern. Our heels tapped L street and our bodies found comfort in fluffy coats and leather gloves upon the Dame's arrival. With one little blanchard on our right and another on our left, we entered the rooms that could not possibly fit our wardropes, chandeliers, and personal "Dorotas". No one told us we would be camping. But when you are a District Dame, things happen. There is no need to complain. Instead DC was our mansion. Hello Obama, Michelle, Brad Pitt, Lebron James, Sheryl Crow, Wil-I-Am, Harrison Ford, and Good Charlotte. We walk the high-road with you. Yes, we eat five course meals at Clyde's-on them-, get hit on when in our sweats, travel to exotic beaches off the jersey coast, frequent fly and lucky bars, hold press conferences in 403, land high end jobs with the world famous NPR, lodge in Valley Forge's finest exclusive resort, recieve visitors every other weekend, make debuts on CNN, travel by cab three times in a weekend, walk on foot to two different malls, snack only on Thomas Sweet icecream, get interviewed/followed/reported on for random reasons, hold private ab classes, cause paparrazi to start gossip, go thru public breakups, and yes we keep in constant contact via secret gchatting and facebook messaging hourly. We are the District Dames. We talk too much, we love too much, we fight for eachother, we fight with eachother, we stay up late, we are independant, we are needy, we are sure, we are scared, we never cook, we love a crush, we are roommates, we are friends, we love DC, we are the District Dames. Our fifteen minutes of fame as a girl group may be over. But this diamond road is slowly turning to gold. Our solo careers are just beginning. Goodbye DC. B.
