When I was four years old, I was a ballerina. All little girls know that ballerina’s are beautiful for three reasons: their buns (hair, not ass, people), their tights and, of course, the tu-tu’s. I wore mine every day without fail. With leggings. Pink, purple, green, it didn’t matter. That tu-tu would be tied around my waist while I went frog-hunting with my bestest boy friend in the whole world.
I miss the simplicity of a tu-tu, believing that a stiff pink skirt was all one needed to W.O.W! the world. And the ease of hunting frogs that are nothing more than, well, little slimy green dudes.
Nowadays my frog hunts and stiff pink....AHEMs are unintended and crop up after particularly nasty dates during which the man sitting across from me discreetly picks his nose. At the dinner table. Dude, there is nothing discreet about diving for boogers. Or how about that guy on the undisclosed dating website who asked me if I wanted to barbecue up some cat and eat it. Yeah, I was all over that action……or not. My poor little pussy cringed in response. Yours did too, admit it. I am seriously considering anonymous donor insemination because I love to rape myself. And I really, really REALLY want a baby. My biological clock is tick-tick-ticking out a tune that's working it's way towards 31 and my spanx are the only thing holding me together. Sometimes. Wine occasionally lends itself towards my emotional stability along with running and a cigar.
I’m willing to try anything at least once – well almost anything...BBQ’d cat being one exception. I hate moths (and have been known to run screaming from them like a prissy little girl) and germs. My face is often hidden behind a camera and there is always a petite Border Collie glued to my ankles. OK, OK, running circles around my aging ankles to be more precise. People who are constantly texting their friends/family/Donald Trump make me want to grab a chainsaw and go all massacre on their index fingers. Shy is not a word to describe me. I grew up in the country, live in a small town and have an undying love for shoes. I'm extremely opinionated and confident in the universal fact that yes, I do indeed Know Everything. OK hold on, I have to consult with the Gawds of Google because I need a major hyperbole here. Right. I'm exorbitantly opinionated. Radically and terrifically opinionated. 100% right All. The. Time.
Oh, and I talk.