So somehow when I was sunning my whalebelly on Sunday I managed to sunburn my ass. Not my whole ass, of course, just the sections surrounding my bikini. While I do have a small ass for someone of my advanced years, I'm not quite brave enough to bare it to the world in Balboa Park.
Now, though, I kinda look like the cross section of a radish. It's not a good look. Just sayin'.
Of course the chances of anyone actually seeing it to appreciate the essential radish-ness of said posterior are slim to none, unless I accidentally (heh) forget to lock the door to the ladies room at work tomorrow. Nothing like that frisson of workplace exhibitionism to really add spice to the job.
In seperate yet not unrelated news, I'm headed up to the desert for a minibreak this weekend. Sadly I shan't be accompanied by Hugh Grant, his voluptuous head of hair or his sporty convertable. Just some girls from work. I'm ok with that though. Who wouldn't be? I mean, of course it would be better if Hugh was coming too,(or, better yet, Dave Grohl) but I'm sure I can get into enough trouble sans Dave. Or Hugh. Or heck, even Jenson Ackles. Who, by the way, was apparently galivanting around Vancouver shirtless last week. This is the shit that happens when I leave town. Assholes.
Let's not kid - all three would be best because, heck, a girl's got needs and variety is the spice of life and all that crap. And I just decided that J.Ackles would not be allowed to wear a shirt the enitre time. In fact, he may never be allowed to wear a shirt again.
You are welcome.
Comfort books. Is this even a thing?
Il y a 10 heures