I see Miss Flox has gone on a judgment spree on her adorable little tiny blog. I don't blame her; I'm flattered. But honeycakes, green really isn't your color.

You see, we'd met before yesterday's lingerie fight. We were at the Blogger Prom. Contractually obligated to play nice in front of our mutual and very tall bossman.

But we'd never really spoken or smelled each other's scents until we met up at the Starbucks next to Frederick's of Hollywood to buy our under-$100 outfits for the lingerie duel/photoshoot.

I was running late (so was she) but she got there first. I walked in and didn't even notice her behind some stupid newspaper. She's gotta be 4 feet tall, and the straw through which she was sucking her coffee was approximately the same diameter as her pretty little neck.

I offered her a bite of my gluten-free fruit bar. She could use some pink in her cheeks. She refused as though I'd offered her a small insect to swallow. I see how she maintains her frail frame…she certainly doesn't lift heavy objects or — GASP! — run a mile to keep fit. She's too busy sucking down Marlboros and grande Americanos.

And so what if we happened to order the same drink? Great minds think alike, and I have no qualms admitting her mind is a good one. Doesn't mean it's not also fucked-up insane and filled with crazy thoughts waiting desperately to explode from her fingertips and into her little cracked iPhone.

Some of us need lean protein, spinning class and Chi for fuel. Others need unnecessary drama and pointy fingernails to nourish their souls.

Miss Flox barely looks up from her iPhone at all times. Her steps are small, slow and barely aware of anything around her almost causing two human collisions (the men didn't mind) and her left tit almost falling out of her Desperate Housewife dress four times. (Yeah I noticed and counted. You would've, too.)

I head straight to the classic Barbarella gear. Miss Flox checks out some polka dots in the clearance section. Must have taken a wrong turn. By the time I'm into my third potential outfit, I hear Miss Flox bitching about her followers taking too long to choose an outfit.

“Why not pick the one you like the best?” I call out from the dressing room.

She hissed.

I scored four pieces for just under a C-note. So consumed by tapping her talons onto her iPhone screen, Miss Flox almost didn't pay. Classy to the max. We make our way (excruciatingly slowly) to my apartment, where the stellar photog Mike was waiting patiently.

As he set up, Miss Flox set to work finding things in my adorable apartment to rag on.

Books: “Did you even read Dostoevsky's 'The Idiot'?” I finished it in 10th grade.” (Cute. At that age I was reading “Crime and Punishment” and figuring out whether the blue line meant I was or wasn't pregnant.)

Kitchen: “Those green orbs. Why?” (She was referring to the granny smith apples I keep in a white colander on the counter. She obviously isn't one to eat fresh foods, let alone food in general, so I ignored her. She seems to think my fridge is full of fresh farm-raised goods but if she had taken the time to open the door she'd have noticed a lonely box of pre-cooked lentils, five bottles of nail polish and a jug of aloe vera juice. The latter of which she probably should have taken a swig or two…would've helped Miss Flox loosen the fuck up a bit.) We're not so different, are we?

Cats: “[Insert attempt at sounding evil and violent.]” (I didn't pay attention to the comment referencing the accidental death of my cat, Burt. I later walked in on Miss Flox rubbing the hell out of his fur and you're damn right I made a pussy pun before laughing at her. So when she smirked about me being a cat lady with too many sex toys, I just chuckled as she picked up my stainless steel anal wand, doe-eyed as if she'd just found Wonka's final golden ticket.)

Music: “What the hell is this emo hip-hop shit?” (Miss Flox isn't exactly one with pop culture — not a dig, just a fact — and what she was listening to was a remix of Chris Brown's “Deuces.” So I switched it to Rihanna's new “Only Girl in the World” so Miss Flox would shut the fuck up, but she kept whining about hearing something by Robyn. Which of course, I also had in my vast music collection. I told her to step away from the keyboard or I'd kill her. Wait until my song's over, bitch. Mind your manners.)

Had she told me she wanted to listen to the Raveonettes I would've accommodated. And for the record, when some sexy-as-fuck Ladytron and Flying Lotus came on during the shoot, Miss Flox actually complained and requested pop hip-hop. So she can flush whatever snobbery she has for modern music down the toilet…since we all know she doesn't use that facility for much else.

And as I pinned her down onto the pillows for that ridiculously sexy shot I know you've all fapped/flicked to three times today, I noticed something that revealed a softer (or insane?) side of the snow queen. A tiny little sticker, something you'd find in a kid's meal, lay upon her bony hip. It featured some kind of cartoon pterodactyl on it and when I asked WTF it was, she recoiled and fused up. As if I'd asked her weight or preferred brand of tampon. I brought it up three more times as I found the silly sticker migrate from her hip to her hand (please note the featured photo in her NakedCity account…you'll see it if you squint) and eventually the pillow. But no dice; this was to remain a strange secret.

Whatever. There were more important things to think about…like capturing my best side and stealing the light.

So Miss Flox is bitchy, as quick to complain as she is to disapprove and feel irritated, and looks good in purple. But that doesn't make me like her any more than before, and most certainly isn't going to make us friends. (Unless she starts working for me…AfterDarkLA.com could use a little nymph(o) around the office, making pretty cups of coffee and rubbing our feet.)

But I will say that with Mr. Photographer as a mediator and inspiration, Miss Flox and I released some aggression while taking some damn good photos.

Ya know, it really doesn't matter who wins this battle…there really isn't a possible winner. It's a popularity contest with a dash of T&A and writing talent, and I'm pretty sure the fact that Miss Flox's umbilical chord's been connected to the Interwebs for decades gives her a leg up.

But that's fine. Because there's a whole other realm of sex that her precious writing doesn't cover, and she could learn a thing or three about it. That's where Barbie comes in. Maybe we can work together some day. But for now, it's war lingerie.

LA Weekly