Featuring yuletide paraphernalia and ye olde badly used grammar
I hate being photographed. To the point that there exists almost no account of me in general from about 2002 to now - a smattering of ID pics, a few family shots taken by granma (you know the kind - the one with aching smiles and forced poses and various Christmas trees in the background), and that's about it.
I was always convinced I'm not the most terribly attractive persona, and especially so in photographs.
Well, guess what.
I stumbled across a photo taken by my friend R. some three years ago. It's a small, cute little thing. You can hardly -- no, you can't actually see my face. But you can see the rest of a surprisingly slim kid with a passable haircut.
Some things have definitely changed since that pic was taken. But, you know, predictable epiphany commenced and all that. (To think I scoffed at the Cassandrian warnings of a trashy lady mag which predicted this happening! "You will looketh at your high-school pics and decide you weren't so bad after all!" Woe is me, etc.)
Shit, I'm a hot piece of ass. I never knew.