The September Issue
It's September. I'm 37 and my kitten is now a man. He had his balls surgeried on and now, much like me, wants only to eat (Fancy Feast, although I don't partake in that particularly) and sleep.
So I'm off work this week and we've done a lot of lounging around on the couch and putting on Too Faced makeup together (not on him). I ordered that big-ass glittery pink anniversary pallet for muh damn self. Not all that impressed, but maybe it's my complete and utter lack of ability to put it on correctly. I mean, I am okay at drawing a bat wing on my eye in octopus ink black liner, but not much else. Maybe it's my actual face that's the problem.
Lately a plastic surgeon has been liking all my selfies on IG and it makes me wonder if he thinks it's going to motivate me to get a nose or boob-job or something. 🖕🏻 you, plastic surgeon. Maybe I like my huge, crooked nose and lazy right eye. Perhaps I *want* small, crepey tits and a tremendous potato-pear stomach.Have been unsucessful in general in terms of stopping eating, BUT I have not had a soda or Rockstar in a month. I thought that would result in dropping 60 lbs. immediately. I guess not.
God I was doing so well with my hair until May, and now I am mostly bald save for a ring of mullet I pull up in a high ponytail. It's really depressing. An inch of fuzz has grown in and I'm considering keeping it all shaved that short so that I can't even grab it to pull it out. The problem with that is that I do not have cheekbones and very much resemble a slightly femaler Adam Sandler with my hair short.
At least October is near. Something to live for. 🎃