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| I'LL BE GODDAMNED IF I'LL BE OUTDONE BY MILEY CYRUS'S PET PIG (It's called a clue. Because if I didn't provide one this game would take all day.) |
I had a day off yesterday and, as I do with all my days off, I selflessly devoted the time to bettering not only myself but also the craptastic shitty of Brampton in which I begrudgingly live. (Which doesn't take much; the place is a cesspool even without Susan Fennell at the helm.) Anyway, I was going to just tell you what I did in that regard, but then I thought, "Why not make the little buggers work for it? Why should I be the only one striving for self-improvement? If you let them, they'd do nothing but sit around eating cheese curds all day and Googling celebrity butt shots." Not that there's anything wrong with that.
So. Notice anything different about me? I tried to make it a fairly easy guess since I suspect some of you are on an intellectual par with my moron editor and also because, truth be told, I can't type a single word with these bloody talons I paid good money for. They look friggin amazing, they're shiny and sexy and the daintiest shell-pink, but they render even the simplest tasks virtually impossible. If I make it through three days without ripping them off my fingers one by painful one, it will be a miracle. It's great being a girl!
EDITOR'S NOTE: *leans in, stares at picture until eyeballs burst into flames* I give up. Is it ... you got a new hairdo?
MY NOTE: IT'S THE NAILS! I GOT NEW NAILS, YOU IMBECILE! (Why am I surprised? This happens every single time.)
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