Saturday September 30, 2006
It's that time of the month.
Time to write another blog entry, that is! Boy howdy, I bet you people were scratching your heads.
I just finished a marathon viewing of Drawn Together, I have far too much Foxxy Love in my head, and I need sleep desperately.
For some actual content, I can report (and should have a long time ago) that the meeting with my therapist went well. He asked a bunch of questions, and I answered them. Either you know what those questions are, or you don't. So there.
An update with my endro' went similarily well. She read over the two or three page report from my therapist—holy crap, he somehow wrote that much in a 15-20 minute interview? Was I drunk?!1—and asked me what I'd like to do. I mentioned a trip coming up and said continue with what I'm doing. Sure enough… prescription refill time!
And how I hate mint. My GOD. I seriousally need to investiage sub-dermal implants, patches, and injections. Anything to get away from this God-awful mint. I'll snort it if I have to! And then there's the physical and financial pain of electrolysis and the long-lasting joy of not having to shave.
Anyway, talking about a trip—and me being all segway-like—I'll be heading down to Panama on the 28th of next month. Yays! This trip, of course, made a good excuse to go clothes shopping. So I now (finally) own my own clothes from the women's rack. Seriousally; what's up with women's sizes? I tried on pants that were 14, a shirt marked M, a shirt marked 2XL, and another shirt marked 17. How useless is this goram system, anyway? Bra sizes make more sense than this. Hello; they're called inches, people, and they were the standard world-wide during English occupation. Or, if you're a toad-licking, snail chugging Frenchie, with apologies to any French friends who don't laugh, use millimeters. Or, to allow for both groups to not kill eachother or cause any more failed Mars landings, label everything with both systems.
Anyway, now I've got some sweet-ass tight cargo pants. Lots of pockets, and a goes-nowhere zipper, too. Amazingly sweet-assed, even. Now I just need to learn a more comfortable way to tuck. —Shudder— I also have a properly fitting (read: long enough for my freakishly long torso) undershirt with integrated elastic unibra-thingy and a neat light turtleneck, and some cover-up. And now to ceace starting new paragraphs with "Anyway"!
Make-up is fun. And stupid. Pores suck, and aparently I did quite well for my first application ever. I'm not a manequin, and I'm not blotchy like the undead. I just forgot one thing—blending around my jaw line more than I did—and now I know. Oh—and I need a powder for those damn pores. Noses suck; thanks, Dad.
Uhm… damn I sound way too friggin' happy. It's a comfort, I guess, that all of my new clothing is the stylish and simple, clean, and black. But I must have more! Rinii says I'm fun to shop for. Ooh, yeah. Any tips on tucking, girls? Drop me a line.
Now, with only the mildest segway to speak of, I'm sad to report that Rinii will be leaving us on Sunday or Monday. She'll be heading to Alberta to join her hubby, and she's nearly creaming herself with anticipation. She's never been away from him for longer than a month, and it's killing her.
I'll post again either before I leave, or once I get to Panama. I'll take lots of photos—I promise. And hey, maybe I'll be in a few of 'em. Now with less rosatia!2
— Alice
- A drum kit falls off of a cliff. Ba-doom-ching!
- Better living through chemicals.