| You Are Miss Piggy |
 A total princess and diva, you’re totally in charge – even if people don’t know it.You want to be loved, adored, and worshiped. And you won’t settle for anything less. You’re going to be a total star, and you won’t let any of the “little people” get in your way. Just remember, piggy, never eat more than you can lift! |
Heh, no surprises there! And I wuv me some Kermit, too.
Okay, they may well be soft numbers, but I like them soft OR hard. I love them for what’s on the inside.
The twelve thousand additional readers the statcounter has given me since yesterday.
Okay, I know there’s a bug. I know twelve thousand readers is a big jump, a big change, a big responsibility. All I want to know now is, can I keep them?
I’ll feed them and water them and take them for walks…pretty please, WordPress, can I keep them?
From Gawker: apparently the buskers in Grand Central Station are much more interesting than the ones in Waterfront, especially since Jill Hennessy made it big.
From Maxim, which cannot be said to be one of the publications I read with great regularity, or even when constipated. Still, worth checking out this bizarre slideshow of accidental porn images; surely some of these have to be tongue in cheek. There just can’t be that many virgins in industrial design.
Can there?
I’m pleased, for example, by the fact that the gay couple who just walked by me at the Chinatown Night Market mistook…
Hang on, perhaps we need some background.
Okay, so this hasn’t been the easiest two or three years of my life. I turned 43, not much cause for celebration under any circumstances. Undiagnosed illnesses are highly inconvenient, not just because it is, under the circumstances, just as impossible to get on disability as it is to hold down a full-time job. The fact that Investor’s Group gave my father’s life savings to someone who is not a legal heir, and that I am on the hook for the whole amount if I can’t get it from them, is another energy drain. Let us not speak of the Orwellian Nightmare that is the Ministry, nor the box o’ delights that the foodbank has been known to provide from time to time (their beef stew “helps build healthy coats” according to the label).
And I got fat.
All very annoying, and not designed to have me looking my best, particularly tonight, as last night I put in a wad of deep conditioner and didn’t bother to rinse it out, thinking instead that if it worked well in five minutes it’ll totally kick ass if I leave it in for 24 hours. As well, I have finally tired of packing a caboose of this magnitude around everywhere I go and so tonight, hair frozen in greasy curls and all, I went out and got some good, old-fashioned exercise. Hey, it’s Vancouver, I figured. Everybody looks like an extra on Hedwig and the Angry Inch.
So I was not looking my very best.
And as I passed the gay couple on my way to get the $1.50 hotdog at the Market, one of them, apparently mistaking me for a junkie because of my loopily exhausted walk and personal fashion sense (still wearing the fragrant and ratty T and pants I’d gone skating in), turned to his partner and whispered, “That poor girl.”
I practically skipped home.
He called me a “girl!” I still qualify!
raincoaster 