Does anything better sum up Kim's coarseness, the trashy coagulation of her soul, than this scene: She's been tasked with getting in shape for her little bus tour with Kandi. (The amount of Febreze that is going to be dispensed on that trip is astronomical.) Rather than remain upright at dance practice, or hold off on the vino for a week, she's enlisted the help of a red laser sprinkler contraption that allows her to nap while it supposedly zaps fat cells. There she was, prone in a leather bikini, bitching to her gals while chomping on a piece of lukewarm cheese pizza.
"God, I need a soda or I'll die," she moaned dramatically, kicking one of her spray-tanned legs on the $3000 fat blaster bed. There was just so much to do before the tour. She had to find her vision, she was supposed to become an artist, and now she had to go to Los Angeles so her hair stylist there could tend to the wind beneath her wig.
While red lights danced on Kim's backside, Cynthia asked if she could speak with NeNe in private. In Kim's kitchen—which looked different, didn't it?—Cynthia apologized for the tension between her friend and her fiance. She wanted NeNe to know how much she valued their friendship—which Sheree in one of her routinely amusing asides labeled parasitic. She gave her a candle, which was a lovely gesture, until NeNe said she'd take a picture of it on her night stand next to her bed and send it to
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