I'm beginning to think my life is a romantic comedy without the romance. In other words, a whole lotta awkwardness and pratfalls. I mean, really, a few weeks back my cat took a mighty shit on my bed while Q the Ass got his stuff. At work, I have to contend with both my unfortunate, doomed crush and the cash tyrant who has conceived an intense dislike for yours truly. Oh, and today, when I went into the Gap to try on a skirt, the saleswoman told me to make sure I had underwear on. I was, frankly, taken back. I always thought I radiated that essential Protestant prudishness, the kind that means sensible white cotton at all times, when instead I've been musky with wanton harlot. Wanton, lady business-airing harlot. Who just wants a plaid skirt. TO DO HER WHORISH UNDERWEAR-FREE BUSINESS IN. God. Perhaps I should consider wearing my underwear on the outside, like Superman, every time I shop at the Gap. It would be marginally less embarrassing.
Anyway, all that awkwardness was for nothing. On me, the skirt looked suspiciously like it came from an R. Crumb drawing. It was less "cute but warm" and more "plump teen who's sexually available to creepy, skinny dudes who will then draw them performing fellatio on an ostrich." Well. At least I have a Halloween costume for this year, but I might need to drag around an essay- with illustrations- explaining it.
Next Up, Whenever I Carve Out Some Time: I get all mushy about some sad knitting news I heard of out of Guelph.
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