There are days when I want to binge on every sweet, fluffy, iced, and cream-filled delight the world has ever known. Then, fuck every man in a ten-mile radius and drown my shame in the rest of the vodka I have in this house. And, finally, wash it all down with the codeine cough syrup in the medicine cabinet.
This...is one of those days.
Then, there are days that the only thing that stops me is my own (considerable) vanity. If I happened to live through it, I'd have aged twenty years in the face when it was over. If I died, by the time someone realized I was gone and found me, I'd be one ugly corpse.
Thus, I consign myself to reading Charlotte Bronte in bed on my Kindle after being caught in a goddamn monsoon on my way back from the grocery store at 3:30 in the goddamn morning and having to unload my shit in the eye of Tropical Storm Asshole...and complaining about it in my blog, of course.
Also, it's still a bitch to blog on my Kindle. I think I shall go back to using it for what it was made for--indulging my every romantic Victorian fantasy. All the gang's here, after all. Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, Agnes Gray, Shirley Keeldar and Caroline, and, of course, Holmes and Watson.
That settles it. I really was born in the wrong time. :(
Where's my hoop skirt, goddamn you?
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