Burned! I'm burned! The whole front of my body has the general appearance of boiled lobster, and my nose is currently being used as a source of light for my office. The red glow is making my colleagues feel romantic, and more than once, one Piranha has grabbed another and started to slow dance in front of my face.
You all are welcome to come and warm yourself by the heat of my heated and scarlet chest.
Especially you, because you're cute.
* * *
So, I saw Ricky Martin this weekend!
What happened was this: I had gone in search of my new favourite underwear at American Eagle... have I told you about these yet? Poppets, let us rejoice! It is now possible for your Mare to lead a thong-free existence! Thong-free! Nothing that feels like a 2x4 lodged in a supremely uncomfortable place! They're low-ride boy-cuts, with the sweetest little animal prints on the back. Adorable! And no lines! Anyway, I heard there was a sale, and these fabulous and lovely mutandi which are normally priced at $12.50 each were going for seven bucks a shot! Hello! Underwear! No lines! On sale! So I went. And I searched. And I became angry. And bitter. And sorely depressed. And inspired by the little monkey on the red pair, I started throwing panties around the area in a desperate attempt to locate one pair, JUST ONE PAIR, that would fit! I already lost the weight for you evil retailers! What more do you want from me? There was extra large. There was extra small. There was nothing in between, in any colour, in any design, in anything at all.
Disappointed, I trudged out of the store and wandered aimlessly, walking towards the music at the centre court. And there he was, signing autographs in his tanned and beautiful glory, waiting for his princess to come so that he could finally admit to the world that he was only playing at being gay because he just hadn't met me yet. Oh, Ricky. Tough luck, my darling. If I had found the damn underwear, I'd be able to shake my bon bon for you from here to eternity. Unfortunately, my love, we are not to be. You can take it up with American Eagle. It's all their fault.
So there you go. I got burned, in more ways than one. I try to stay positive, however. I take comfort in the fact that my tan lines may detract from my panty lines. One must take one's bit of happiness where one can find it, don't you think?
Oh Lord. I just admitted to the world that there's no happiness in my underwear.
It's going to be that kind of day. I can just tell.
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