"Nice to meet you," I replied, losing complete control of the hose I'd started to attempt to half-assedly wash my car with. It flailed wildly across my cheetah print camisol, soaking my boobs. Not sure anyone was turned on, least of all my fiance back in the house.
"Picture them scissoring," I told him on my way through the house to get a towel. He'd been testing his new amp out on my friend's guinnea pig that I watch every summer, Darwin.
"You like this, Barton?" he asks before launching into a Black Sabbath song.
"It's Darwin!" I shouted, breezing back outside. The lesbians were now struggling with the dead branch my batshit crazy former neighbor had planted in the front yard for unknown reasons.The vibe I get off of them is good so far. Aside from some walking in and out of the communal laundry room at my bedtime (8:30) and discussing something (probably laundry) rather loudly, they have not bothered me.
Having completed the procuring of the tampon machines and not having much work to do at work lately, I've focused my attention on reading positive affirmations from TinyBuddha.com and writing them on the pink copy paper I took from the supply room. I am beautiful, I write, slamming shut my pink compact and pursing my Big Pink Planet (Lime Crime) covered lips. My eyeliner is on point, I scraw, borrowing the line from a lady that had walked by my cubicle yelling that while I stuffed peanut butter cheddar cracker in my face. I am loving and I am loved <3, I type from my position at Starbucks over a coconut mocha frappucinno and an artsy fartsy grilled cheese. I am creative, I am hilarious, I finish, clicking publish on my antiquated online journal (this).