I'm just warning you now. Today is Thong Day. I'm gonna be cranky. Regardless of the revolution my arse staged against my undergarment of choice this morning, I persevered and as a result, am styling a lovely seamless vista. Is it worth it? I doubt it. Y'all know I firmly believe that an intriguing panty-line is nothing but seven sorts of delicious to the random male on-looker.
I'm a slave to female criticism. That's obviously my problem.
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Now, I know I didn't tell you all before, my lovelies, my darlings, my providers of sweetness and light, but... this week, along with a kidney full of toxins (healing nicely, thank you), I also unintentionally procured myself a medium-size icky of a cold sore. Also healing nicely, as I Zovirax'd the living hell out of it, but now, I've got to ask you... what in the name of all that is karmically holy did I piss off enough that they had to go and throw up in my cereal this week? I thought May was supposed to be my month d'amour. How am I going to be irresistible to the poor sod when I've got a slightly scabby blister on my lip? Thank God for lipstick. That's all I've got to say. Thank all that is holy for Revlon's Toast of New York. It's a classic, and the classics never die. Much like this bastard of a cold sore.
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Right. I'm going to one of my favourite understated, slightly grimy pubs tonight. Anyone in Toronto who wants a drink tonight... I'll be at The Unicorn.
Love you, poppets.
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