This post is about nothing other than my 12 minute journey to Shoppers to buy $4.49 worth of light bulbs. So terribly onerous, I know. One might understand why I spent 3 months in the dark. Next mission? Fill my fishy bank with future light bulb funds.
My skin lacks what the dictionary would call 'an intensity of colour'. (Read: I'm most pale, if not translucent). If I have a passing thought about sunshine I spawn freckles the way Octomom yields children. So fast and furious one can hardly keep track.
And yet, despite Scandinavian blood and Canadian East Coast rearing, I live and die for the tropical aesthetic.
Lately I've been enjoying the wit of others far more than my own. My friends and the Internet have been slaying me. Though I did spit on my computer when the image of me in a drop-in hip hop class crossed my mind, for the love of pleather chairs humans are a strange and curious kind.
So a virus walks into a bar. The bartender says, "We don't serve viruses here." The virus replaces the bartender and says, "Well, now we do."
So an infectious disease walks into a bar. And the bartender says, "We don't serve infectious diseases here." The infectious disease scoffs, "Well you're not a very good host."
Two bacteria walk into a bar. The bartender says, "We don't serve bacteria here." The bacteria say, "But we work here, we're staph."
Schroedinger's Cat walks into a bar . . . and doesn't.
Okay, so I will never, ever be able to read this post again without having fits and convulsions.
I really haven't been acting much like myself lately. It's pretty upsetting, really. I touched some business suits at the department store without shuddering, paid someone else to cut my hair, and forked out full retail price for this picture frame.
If I wasn't too old for it, I'd swear I had early onset maturity.