But unlike my diaryland beotch, Connie!, I have a sense of fashion that makes most models break down and weep openly at my feet, begging for me to impart a little wisdom their way.
Today at work I was sitting there pretending to work and I looked down and saw a grey hair growing smack dab in the middle of my forearm. I did one of my patented Fu-Fu triple takes and let my mouth fall open like a broken ventriliquist dummy, then I reached down and snatched that thing straight out of existence and looked around to make sure no one was watching me.
I have gray hairs on my head. And I've learned to love them and respect them and get sexually excited by them. But gray arm hair is where I draw the line.
So just now I was lying on my bed talking to the person I have fallen for on the telephone, and the sunlight is beaming in from the window blinds right onto my hand and GODDAMNAMIGHTY! if there isn't a gray hair on my right ring finger.
Gray head hair is erotic.
Gray arm hair is inexcusable.
But gray finger hair is down right wrong.
I snatched it out, too. I didn't even let the hot chick on the other end of the phone know what had happened because, I mean, who would like someone with gray finger hair?
I know I wouldn't.
And I'd be willing to bet that this cracka ho wouldn't either. Especially since I've led her down a supposed path of half truths and betrayal.
While I'm plugging away, I may as well mention that this person and this person are my two favorite diaries ever.
And this person, too.
And this person, too.