I took it off quite a while ago, but the wiggy sensation is still there. Like when a person's amputated leg starts itching. After so much hectic planning and shopping, it's over. The costume party is done, and we're mostly home now, albeit sporting moist fishnets and melted makeup. Quite disappointed in the performance of the male species. Why would you come to a costume dance party, if: a) You don't wear a costume, b) You don't dance, c) You refuse to mingle with the rest of the party.
Thankfully, one or two of my trusty men at work were there, and saved the dance floor from being a sea of creamy estrogen.
I kareoked.
A lot.
Hah.
I actually had more fun at Denny's afterwards.
I was propositioned by several men, but I blame them not. If I saw me at 2 am, I'd think I was a
I managed to: shove 24 French fries in my mouth (Gag.), keel over (Multiple times.), find interesting uses for a wig cap (Pigface lives.), wear my boots ALL night (Ow?) and accidentally ingest a strip of false eyelashes (That's going to tickle).
Let's all be feisty pirates.
I apologize for never updating, dear inky void. I only feel the need to update in order to keep me from sleeping. Sleep is the enemy. The injection of liquid into the intestine by way of the anus is the enema. My bathing suit is hanging from the ceiling. I'm sitting on the floor. There's an empty pudding cup on my desk. You can dance if you want to, you can leave your friends behind.
I am the Lizard King, I can do anything.
I'm a drunken buffoon, I play Yatzhee with my pet loon.
I better sign off before I not-so-spontaneously combust.
Poof.
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