What If Those Last Five Pounds Are in my Bra?

The other day, I was vegging around being almost completely useless, when I decided to torture myself by browsing on the Victoria’s Secret website. For those of you who know me a bit better than those of you who don’t know me at all, you will understand  how this is a somewhat self-masochistic act. As I continue to pay off the $2800 I owe to dear Vicky, I have vowed not to spend a dime there until she is monetarily sated.  However, I am in desperate need of a Boulder Holder I can wear to work that is not falling apart and poking me with an exposed underwire.

As I clicked and clicked away on the website, I reminisced about the days when it seemed I had unlimited funds to spend on over-priced lingerie and  designer shoes. Did you ever notice how perfectly all the clothes fit on those models? I am convinced that just looking at Adriana Lima and that Alessandra chic convinces women everywhere that they are a size two. Luckily, though I am clearly NOT a size two, the jeans from Victoria’s Secret fit surprisingly well on me. And even though I’m certain I could find that booby-enhancing sweater in my hometown mall for a fraction of the price, there’s just something about seeing it on Douzan that makes me want to pay more for it.

While I am completely at home in my body, (after all, I DO have wonderful breasts to play with) I have made the decision that I could lose a few pounds. Sadly, the smell of French fries in the afternoon is enough to make me forget any such decisions. But as I fantasied about over-filling my virtual cart with designs worn by the most beautiful women in the world, I snapped out of it and said to myself, “No! No, Self! You don’t deserve any new clothes until you gracefully fit into all the cute ones you’ve never worn that hang in your closet!” And with a decisive finger, I clicked right on over to my unfinished novel, feeling only slightly powerful that I did not buy the clothes that I couldn’t afford.

The thought of losing weight is never far from my mind, but the thought of exercising is. When my Rockstar suggested last week that the reason for my chronic tiredness was lack of exercise, I calmly looked at him and retorted with, “But think how much MORE tired I’d be if I ran a mile or did situps!” Because of my chestly heritage, even if I DID lose some weight, the chances of my… ahem, upper portions fitting nicely into a size Medium sweater are slim to none. When doctors are weighing the heavy-chested, do they take into account that that extra 20 pounds they’re carrying around just might be in their bra?

Since I have no shortages of men lusting after me, it’s safe to say that I practically perfect at the size I am, but it IS frustrating when I go to try on clothes and nothing fits. So I will once again make a firm decision. I must learn to sew.

Too Much Style (For Some People)

It is true that I use fashion as a means to express my personality. No, I do not agree that you are what you wear, because I know many amazing and interesting people who wear nothing exciting at all. And sometimes there really is nothing more comfortable to wear than a pair of yoga pants and a white Tshirt. (sans bra, of course) But if one were to look into my closet, their eyes would be blinded by a sea of satiny, overly decorated fabrics. My dresser drawers are stuffed with sparkly, fashionably-torn leggings and jewel-toned turquoise blue jeans. The amount of black clothing I own is minimal, yet necessary, because of the many rainbow colored shoes I possess. If one of the afore-mentioned boringly-clad people would come over to my house and ask to borrow some clothes, it is safe to say that they would be distraught to find nothing that would fit their less-than-desirable fashion standards. (or their chests.)

While it is true that bold decisions in fashion may be questionable at times, I have yet (almost) to have anyone blurt out, “Your outfit is hideous!” as I walk by in my banana-colored peep-toe pumps and poofy silver skirt. My Rockstar, though open-minded about fashion, has complimented me only on my more conservative ensembles, yet appreciates the fact that there is effort put into my getting dressed every day. A Sunday morning would not be complete without at least one individual at church stopping me to openly admire my new pair of stillettos, or my ruffly green blouse. Aquaintances have described me as dressing as a “prom queen” or a “fashionista”, and to that I reply, “What the hell is wrong with that?”

The other day, my Rockstar’s daughter and I were deeply engrossed in the painting of many Christmas presents. We were carrying on a lovely conversation that somehow turned to makeup and fashion. The day before, the Daughter had mentioned the excessiveness of the makeup I was wearing, and since she has never been bothered by the glitter and sparkles before, I decided to ask her about it.

“So I wear too much makeup, eh?” I asked proddingly.

She shrugged. “I don’t think so; I think your makeup is BEAUTIFUL, but my mom says you do.”

Ah.

“She also says your clothes are really ugly.” She continued.

Normally, I would take offense, but since the “ugly” comment is coming from a person devoid of fashion personality, I feel only pity.

“Oh. Well your mom’s clothes are a little bit less flashy than mine.” I replied democratically.

“Well, I don’t think your clothes are ugly at all! I think they’re awesome! The very first time I saw you I thought how I wanted to look just like you. My mom tries to put makeup on like you and then she’ll come out of the bathroom and be all like, ‘Oh, don’t I look BEAUTIFUL?’ and I tell her, ‘No way, Mom, you look ugly like that’ and then she gets really mad, but it’s just because she doesn’t know how to put makeup on like you do. And all her clothes are BROWN.”

I refrained from letting the “heehee” that was floating around in my brain seep out from my mouth. “Well, maybe she just didn’t have anyone to teach her how to put makeup on. But you know, lots of makeup should never be used to cover up your face. You should only use that much for fun, ok?”

“Yeah, I know.”

We continued painting in companionable silence, my little fashion protege’ and I.

I do not feel malice or animosity toward the Daughter’s Mother, because I realize she is just using her jealousy as a defense mechanism. Even without having her ex as my Rockstar and her Daughter as my Almost-kid, I would still have more wit, and personality, and boobs than she. But if she would ever ask, I would also have the decency to coach her in makeup technique.

If you are wondering what this person looks like, you may refer to here.

 

 

Uptown Girl

Many months ago, my lovely friend Delightfulness invited me to a party that at the time was to be held at a To Be Determined date. Her boyfriend’s wakeboarding group holds annual Video Premier Parties, and she wished for someone to help keep her entertained while he frolicked drunkenly with his mates. I quickly agreed, as any chance to dress up and hang with a like-minded pal is never to be passed up. After getting all fabulated last night, (as in, dolling ourselves up fabulously) we made our way to Uptown Minneapolis.

There is something to be said of Uptown. Surely, it is over-populated with hipsters and other wanna-be uniquees. But who cannot be awed by the beautiful old buildings that don every corner, and the many businesses trying to be different from all the others? We arrived to the bar where the party was getting started after driving around trying to figure out how to get there because the normal roads were blocked off for the annual Art Fair. Before we stepped into the specially-reserved Messanine Room, I was pleased to have my extensive cleavage ogled by a man with a Heinekin and a wife in the elevator.

Upon entering the “super-special M room”, my friend and I plopped down quite lady-like in the overstuffed leather chairs that are impossible to get out of and proceeded to analyze and Joan-Rivers the steadily growing guests. Later on in the evening, I actually texted my Rockstar the picture I took of the Girl In the Too-Tight Dress as she became known, because the fact that I could see her entire crotchal area and almost her bare bottom could not rudely be kept to myself. It seems that karma most certainly came around on that incident, when Delightfulness disbelievingly pointed out the two non-gentlemen sitting near us indiscreetly taking pictures of my boobage in my sparkly dress. I asked her if I should note to them that such pictures should be used for masturbation purposes only. She, for some reason found this hilarious.

There was one thing that greatly disturbed me. In the wide open party room, the bathroom was blatantly obvious and open to the general public. Of course there was a door with sufficient locking mechanisms to promote privacy while one did their business; however, I needn’t point out that men who imbibe multiple liquorous beverages care not who sees them pee. And so, I decided after seeing at least four men in the urinal position, I needed to find a different restroom to use. Delightful and I headed upstairs to seek one.

Alas! There was no restroom to be found on the open roof of the building, but as we descended once again to the lower levels of the Underlings, I was stopped by a security guard on the stairs.

“Wait! Wait!” He cried in his burly black man way.

I looked around in horror, afraid I had in some way offended the Uptown way of life as I walked down the stairs in my 5″ heels.

“Yes?” I replied hesitantly.

“How you doin?” (Ah, I thought. I understand) He flashed his flirty non-ugly smile at me. “Come here, come here.”

I difficultily ascended a few stairs and leaned forward to hear his whisper.

“Where you from? What’s you’re name? Can I have your number?”

I gave him a million-dollar smile and shrugged.

“I’m Nobody from Far Away, and I don’t know my number.” Delightful and I raced down the stairs when he nearly flung his cell phone at me while trying to convince me to enter my number. Apparently the tie I stole from Delightful’s boyfriend was a Security Guard Magnet.

The rest of the night was a blur, as my older-than dirt brain began to wear down. After leaving the party and trekking a good four blocks in the rain to procure a slice of pizza for the drunken boyfriend of Delight, we were on the road home.

I must say that having a plastered individual back-seat driving is a humourous and yet somewhat-annoying experience. After driving around Lake Calhoun and a few neighborhoods where we could have gotten shot, we found our way back to the interstate. The night was made complete with a late-night stop to Taco Bell, which was disturbingly disgusting. Within 30 seconds of setting foot in Delightful’s apartment, I was sprawled on her couch snoring nearly soundlessly.

P.S. We took a picture in our fabulous get-ups, and laughed hysterically when it looked as though I was pointing at Delight’s much-smaller-than-mine boobies.

 

I May Not Be Fat, But I Still Look Like A Whale

So as I have mentioned in the past, I do not sport the slender physique of a starving Somalian or a high-fashion model. Throughout the years, I have become increasingly comfortable with my non-twiggy self, since what I possess seems to be a magnet for Man Hands. Of course, a good twenty pounds of this reason reside in my colossal Boulder Holder, which results in a good amount of non-classy cleavage that I would be lost without. However, there is always one place where my muscled and french-fry fed bod always gets on my nerves.

The Dressing Room.

I ventured to the mall last week to procure a dress for my Rockstar’s niece’s wedding. (Yes, the fact that he has a neice old enough to marry is not lost on me.) I was thrilled to find myself once again amonst friends, (I mean the racks of clothes) and greeted each with a warm smile. It took me less time than it would take you to sing Happy Birthday twice to load my arms down with a pile of overly-dressy and bejeweled frocks (including a clearanced prom dress) and I made my way to the dreaded Room.

Let us just say, after becoming stuck in a dress with my arms over my head and my bosoms the obstacle to my freedom, I will only be trying on dresses with elastic surrounding the boobs. (I would have called for an attendant, but I was much too embarrassed.)

I tried on at least twenty dresses of all shapes and sizes, and felt exactly like Prince Charming searching endlessly for Cinderella’s foot. This one was too tight; this one was too loose; this one showed too much cleavage; this one showed to much back fat, (of which I don’t have alot of, but in certain dresses, it seems like I have backboobs). The only thing I can definitely get away with is going a little bit short on the skirt if need be, because I’ve been told I have baby-like skin, and they are well-muscled from hours of heel usage. In the end, I left the mall feeling depressed and corpulant. The only thing that made my sulking better was the fact that I picked up a pair of bronzey sequined pumps for only $8. (Go me!)

My friend Delightfulness was with me during my decent into self-loathing. She assured me that I am beautiful (easy for her to say- she was shopping at the other end of the dress rack on the skinny side- we needed megaphones to communicate our findings.) and that every day I must look at a different body part and tell myself what it was I liked about it. I began with my toes, and how I like that they are not long and creepy like so many peoples’ are. I find this excercise helpful except for one major thing- I can tell myself how perfect my boobies are (many people have done so) and how nice my skin is, and how non-flabby my butt is, but in the end, I’m still only skinnier than 3/4 of the McDonald’s devotees. And that does NOT make me look good in a dress.

P.S. I ended up finding a fabulous one-piece pantset that perfectly displayed the proper amount of cleavage to remain tasteful and still draw attention away from the eyesores.

Plain

I received perhaps the best compliment ever from a coworker the other day without him having said barely a word.

This coworker happened to be the self-proclaimed douche I’ve mentioned in past posts. While I find him hilarious to work with, I can understand why some people would find him offensive. Mainly, because he is offensive. He has no qualms about telling people exactly what he thinks or giving them shit when he thinks they are being ridiculous. He enjoys spending the work hours he shares with me doing this exact thing, because he finds my flirtatious nature absolutely ridiculous, yet we get along great, because I have no problem agreeing with him on his self-proclamation of ass-holery.

Anyhoo, we were discussing a coworker’s wife who had come in to dine, and I pointed out that she really was quite plain. As always, the conversation turned to the subject of me (because, after all, everything IS all about me) and I stated something along the lines of- “I realize that I am very plain, but that woman was expecially so.” At that comment, the self-proclaimed douche’s eyes widened and he shook his head as I continued to ramble on about the saddery of plainness. When I noticed this, I stopped in my lecture, and he simply said, “Sparkle, you’re not plain.”

Coming from someone who finds me mostly ridiculous and frivolous, I found this to be a great compliment, especially since I am deathly afraid of being unnoticeable.

With all the beautiful people in the world, I find it most exhausting to try to even reach the bottom rung of the Beauty Ladder. While I admit that I do have relatively nice skin, when I wake up in the morning, I find nothing whatsoever in the mirror that stands out (at least in a good way.) I am pale, my eye color is an un-interesting poop shade, and my nose is too bulbous to be defined as “small”. I jazz all this up by swooping on brightly colored shades of eyeshadow, and applying glitter or blush to my cheeks.

It is true that my wardrobe reflects my inner showgirl. I own almost nothing that doesn’t sparkle or shine. However, I still find myself to be a plain girl playing dress-up in Dolly Parton’s closet.

So, it’s nice to see that at least one person has noticed my excessive tries to avoid Plaindom. Even if he is a douche.

P.S. I must point out here that looks aren’t everything, but to quote Freud- “Beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.”

Who I’d Be if I Wasn’t Me

This may come as a surprise to you all, but because of the relationships I’ve had, I am somewhat more edited than I otherwise would be. I am also still alive, when I probably otherwise wouldn’t be, so I suppose that’s a good thing.  I will explain.

I will admit that there have been many choices in my style throughout the year that my Rockstar and my Ex have not fully approved of. (Namely, my rainbow of hair color choices) This was just me being me while still trying to maintain their interest in me. Here is the funny thing- I tend to be in relationships with men who lean toward the more conservative side. I do not know why this is, but I will say that if I had dyed my hair Wildfire orange when I was still married, my Ex would have been greatly appalled, whereas the reaction from my Rockstar was only slight disappointment. I was thinking about it the other day, and have come up with a list of ways I would be vastly different if I had been going through life unattatched.

Firstly, I would probably have pink hair.

Or purple hair.

Or blue hair.

Or rainbow colored hair.

There really are just so many beautifully bright choices!

I would have had braids.

Or cornrows.

Or a fauxhawk. (I suppose I did technically have one of these. Of course I pulled it off.)

And then no hair at all. (Because I have a nicely-shaped head.)

Moving on from my skull…

I definitely would have a nose ring. (Because I have a very cute nose that begs to be blinged out.)

And a tongue ring.

And perhaps a clit piercing. (No, you don’t get a picture of that! This one is a maybe, because my clit really needs no more stimulation than it already gets.)

I probably would have had nipples rings at some point, but would have taken them out by now.

And oh the tattoes I would have!

I would surely have a giant backpiece of…

a tiger!

Or a cross!

Or a road map! (In case someone needed directions)

There would be that one very not-well-thought-out quote from Def Leppard that reminds us that “love bites”.

There would also be a swarm of butterflies flitting across my entire body.

Dr. Suess quotes? There would be many.

And perhaps a giant “American” tattoe across my belly. (To help identify my heritage when I was found dead in Brazil)

Of course there would be a little scattering of lipstick marks tattoed down the side of my neck. (Because who WOULDN’T want to kiss me there?)

Sadly, I am terrified of needles, so even if my significant other did not despise tattoes so, I mayn’t ever have any of these wonderful creations.

As far as the mental aspect of my life?

I would probably be living in Nevada working at the Bunny Ranch right now if I had never met my Rockstar.

Or going through life as a heroin-hooked Dumpster Junkie.

Or living in a padded cell talking to the extra voices in my head.

Basically, if it weren’t for the men I’ve had in my life, I’d be a hairless, multi-pierced, tattoed insane junkie whore.

Thank you, my men.

(I’d probably have a sweet book deal based on my life, though.)

Opinion

I was having an perfectly acceptable conversation with my Rockstar the other night while sucking down Cherry Rum and V-8 Splash, when it suddenly became quite objectionable. We were discussing one of my Rockstar’s coworkers, and his utter weenie-age, when the subject was replaced with said Weenie’s wife. I have only encountered the Weenie’s wife on two occassions, both company Christmas parties I’ve attended where it seems I am just too much for my Rockstar’s coworkers. (But nevermind about that.)

I began pointing out that on these two occassions, the Weenie’s wife was less than friendly, but that she had been wearing fun knee-high boots when first I met her. My Rockstar seems to remember these boots with surprising clarity, and had this opinion about them-

“Yeah, you can tell she has a bit of a wild side because she was wearin’ those boots.”

Let me translate for you, because this is actually what he meant-

“Yeah, she was wearin’ those boots because she was hoping they’d help her get laid.”

I may seem incorrect in my translation, but trust me. I know my Rockstar better than you.

Anyhoo, at first I was unsure of how to respond. After all, as I am quite certain the Weenie’s wife was wearing her ONLY pair of sexy boots, I have numerous pairs of sexy boots, stillettos, wedges, etc. that I do not wear with the intention of trying to get laid. After a moment, I decided to ask my Rockstar his opinion on THOSE-

“Geez, if that’s what you thought of her boots, what must you think of me when I wear all my shoes?”

Translation- “So do you think I look slutty in my fun shoes too?”

He has learned to not be crass in his speech to me, however, he hasn’t lost the crass attitude. His answer?

“I think you know exactly what you look like when you wear your shoes.”

One more translation- “Yeah, you look like a horny skank when you wear your shoes, too.”

I was somewhat disturbed to find that my Rockstar is not as thrilled with my shoes as I am. However, skankage is NOT the reason I wear them. And so we are going to play a little game, where I will show you a picture, and I will tell you the first word that comes to mind, then you get to tell me the first word that comes to YOUR mind.  Here we go:

1. I would look like a Rockstar in these!

2. Ooh! Pink! And sparkly!

3. Feathers!

4. I love bows…

5. They’re so ruffly and bright!

6. Very debonair.

7. It would be like a garden on my feet!

 

Fashion Statement

I am composing this post to tell you all the truth…

For Women:

Skinny jeans do NOT, in fact, make you look skinny, unless you already are so. The truth is, if you possess any ass whatsoever, skinny jeans simply scream, “Look at this HUGE ass! We make it look even ginormouser by making these legs look smaller!” The only acceptable time to wear skinny jeans is when boots are paired with them.

Not everyone should wear a bikini. I realize that two-piece swimwear is all the rage, and has been so since the 60’s. However, unless you are vacationing in Mexico, (where a one-piece is the equivilant of advertising that you are a prude) I deem it perfectly acceptable to wear  unitard-inspired swimwear. I am speaking to those women buying the cutesy minute bikinis in a size 10 or larger. Just because they make ’em in that size does NOT make it ok to buy it.

Galoshes are made to wear in the rain. While I have, in the past, entertained the thought of pairing a set of patterned galoshes with a fluffy skirt and rock T-shirt, I have NOT actually done so. This may be due to the fact that, while sitting in the Denver airport, I witnessed a girl having done so. I also witnessed the reaction her choice of outfit provoked. Let me just point out- the reaction to Lady Gaga’s meat dress was very similiar.

See-thru leggings are to be worn with something over them. I (and I’m quite certain other people) do not wish to have the opportunity to discover if you’ve manicured your pussy lawn just by looking at you.

Fat people and stretchy pants- NO! Just no.

A fashion math problem: Cleavage – leg= Classy.  Leg – cleavage = Sexy. Leg + Cleavage = Skanky. One or the other, girls. Unless your trying to make some dough on a street corner.

While I encourage the wearage of sky-high heels, I do not condone wobbling around on them in public. Practice, practice, practice!

For the Men:

Flannel shirts are acceptable at specialized times, such as: when chopping wood; when ice-fishing and/or hunting; and when dressing as Paul Bunyan for Halloween. There is no such thing as a NICE flannel shirt, unles you are speaking of it’s quality in sub-zero weather.

It’s best to wear a belt when belt loops are present. If you’ve not noticed, unless you are Chris Meloni, you probably don’t have an ass to hold up your pants.

Baseball hats are also acceptable at specialized times, and should not be worn during church, at the dinner table, or because you are simply too lazy to comb your hair.

Holey and/or stained T-shirts are an unacceptable outfit choice for a first date- unless you AND your date are homeless.

While dress shirts are meant to be tucked in, I would like to point out that a man possessing a beer belly in a tucked in shirt STILL has a beer belly. I’m not quite certain how that looks less messy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ballad to My Low-Quality Payless Workshoes

Oh my unattractive non-slip faux-leather work footwear,

I am sorely perturbed at your repulsive appearance. I cannot completely blame you, as you were designed for comfort, and not for looks. Oh that you were as comfortable as your ugliness deems you should be! Alas, it seems that the $24 I paid for thee was an utter waste of cash. Now, I am forced to vest my feet in your disgustingly smelly depths every time I venture to work. My peers say it shall be my 6″ alligator heels that are the death of my feet, but nay! I am convinced it shall be ye.

The grippers on the bottom of you not only keep me from slipping and hitting my skullage on the pizza oven at work- they are extremely adept at picking up an stray pepperoni, cheese, and other perishable pizza toppings that have made their way onto the floor. The treads of you are so full of mashed pork and beef toppings that just the thought of it makes my stomach churn. Woe is me, but there is no way to unsully the soles of my work shoes!

Sadly, you were not there to appropriately support my perfectly-arched feet yesterday when I needed you most. Nine hours I was scheduled; while my feet screamed at me for mercy from your death hold after only five hours, I further tortured them by having to stay at work for another seven hours after I was scheduled.  In return, my feet have decided to retaliate by refusing to fit into my gorgeous satin leopard-print booties. No amount of soakng or rubbing will deter them from dispersing their retribution.

I’ve considered replacing you, my Payless shoes, with a higher end brand of work boot, such as Doc Martens. Unfortuneately, I cannot justify spending $100 on a pair of shoes that will, in less than a month, reek of pizza grease and tomato sauce. And so, my homely companions, I pray that you will be kind to my feet just long enough for me to become insanely famous and rich from my blog.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

 

A Shopper’s Lament

Oh, dearest Victoria’s Secret, Half-Priced Books, and other assorted emporiums,

How I long to place myself amidst your aisles of merchandisive splendor. I desire to slip my size 9 foot into the newest pair of shiny blue stillettos that grace your windows and to feel the thrill that no matter how many McDonald’s french fries I eat, shoes will always fit. I crave the euphoria that comes with realizing that Revlon has just launched an entire new line of beauteous long-lasting eyeshadows perfect for the greasy workings of a Pizza Slut, and the excitement when I see that they are buy one, get one free.

It matters not that I own roughly 4,000 books that I haven’t read, no, no. I will always feel the urge to buy more. I blame it on the scene in Beauty and the Beast when the Beast gives Belle access to his entire castle library. The point is, buying books is the equivilant of receiving an orgasm given by a long-time lover who knows exactly what makes your toes curl. It is a high that takes you at least a half hour and a nap to come down from. Alas, I can no longer use the reasoning, “A Chuck Palahniuk book. I must buy this, as I have eyes that can read.”

My anguish is cause by the fact that I have just finished figuring out exactly how many dollars I owe because of unnecessary purchases at your establishments. $13, 642 doesn’t seem like alot until you say it out loud. In my defense, at least $2,000 of that is actually moneys my ex-husband owed in my name, but I don’t want to talk about that. Also, I suppose I should have paid the Cooking Club of America when they were sending me recipes and an apron with my name embroidered on it. (Although, I am not completely satisfied with the performance of that apron, as it had not the desired response from my Rockstar when I wore it sans clothes.) Too, I owe the St. Cloud Times $25 because I signed up to receive the Sunday paper solely to do the crossword puzzles, therefore enhancing my already superior intelligence. The rest, sadly is a result of my own shopping transgressions- not recent ones, mind you, unless you consider the fact that I’ve been spending the moneys I should have been paying bills with on books. And shoes. And guitars. Oh my.

I have come to the conclusion that if I can resist the temptation of JCPenney’s new Friday and Wednesday sales, and if I take the long way around the mall to get to Target, therefore bypassing any devilish shoe stores, it will only take me ten months to pay off everything I owe to the point that I will be debt free and able to purchase my dream car, a 2012 Boss Mustang. While a completely awesome car may not compare to a closet full of shoes, it may last a bit longer than my lavender and gold Hale Bob wedges that I noticed are getting quite worn out. And it would be quite pleasant to no longer have satanic debt collectors calling me at all hours of the morning and night, posing as that mysterious Unknown person that I don’t know.

And so, my beloved shops, until January of next year, I shall feel your absence like a shotgun wound to the boob every time I get paid. But fear not; when we are again reunited, it will be sweeter than ever, as I will be debt free and armed with a plethora of re-uasable shopping bags.

Forever yours,

Sparklebumps