First day of university (please pronounce in highly Viet accent a la Herren Ree) tomorrow.
J
About Me
- Junaberry
- I'm a student from Australia who used to have a lot of time on her hands but doesn't have that much anymore. Now she has other stuff on her hands.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Update on the "Eyewear" Sitch
You can all rest on your laurels now (I'm pretty sure that saying isn't appropriate for this situation but I really like the sound of it. Laurels sounds floral). The sunglasses situation has been rectified.
I exchanged them for a pair that did not asphyxiate my facial region.
J
I exchanged them for a pair that did not asphyxiate my facial region.
J
Facial Helipads
Why is my face so damn massive?
The issue is that over the last few months/year or so I've become increasingly anal about sun protection. I wear sunscreen everyday and if I know I'm going to be outside in the sun a lot that day I'll wear jeans and a less revealing shirt. My mum is always lecturing me about how I'll get sun-damaged eyes and lose my eyesight and get eye cancer from UV exposure. I finally decided to get sunglasses the other day.
This morning (in Death Weather) my mum and I went to the shops to look for sunglasses. And fuck it if every single pair was too small for my massive face. My face is so damn wide and circular and heinous that all sunglasses look too small for me. Not only do they look too small, they are too small. The arms practically crack every time they have to exert themselves to occupy my facial region.
I bought a pair just for the sake of it because I desperately wanted some and I got home and immediately regretted it. It looks like my face is being strangled by the "eyewear" (very Michele Gerard).
Now I want to return them but I don't know if the chemist takes returns! Fuck that shit.
J
The issue is that over the last few months/year or so I've become increasingly anal about sun protection. I wear sunscreen everyday and if I know I'm going to be outside in the sun a lot that day I'll wear jeans and a less revealing shirt. My mum is always lecturing me about how I'll get sun-damaged eyes and lose my eyesight and get eye cancer from UV exposure. I finally decided to get sunglasses the other day.
This morning (in Death Weather) my mum and I went to the shops to look for sunglasses. And fuck it if every single pair was too small for my massive face. My face is so damn wide and circular and heinous that all sunglasses look too small for me. Not only do they look too small, they are too small. The arms practically crack every time they have to exert themselves to occupy my facial region.
I bought a pair just for the sake of it because I desperately wanted some and I got home and immediately regretted it. It looks like my face is being strangled by the "eyewear" (very Michele Gerard).
Now I want to return them but I don't know if the chemist takes returns! Fuck that shit.
J
Friday, February 25, 2011
Death Weather
I went to O-Day at uni today.
Let's start off by saying it was fucking disgusting. Literally, within two seconds of stepping out of my house, I was dripping wet (take that dirtily if you feel like a little tipple), smelled heinously and just felt generally ill. Little Mishelle and I went into the city for a second so I could get Kim something to add to her birthday present (happy 18th!) and so I could buy a skirt or something similarly "dressy" to wear to Kim's 18th dinner that night. Naturally, we were running late and so mad dashing ensued. We just managed to get the bus to uni and, lo and behold, I was even sweatier, smellier and iller (?).
This only got worse as we went to the commencement ceremony. It was in an outdoor area where they usually hold the Perth film festival during summer. If you've been to the outdoor cinema before you'll know what I'm refering to; those hammock-like chairs where you sit down and sort of sink into it. It's incredibly uncomfortable. The situation was this: I was sweaty and smelly. I was acutely aware of how disgusting I smelled and looked. Because of my uncomfortable seating arrangement, my top was pulled haphazardly, exposing more cleave than I would have liked and there was this insanely tall guy sitting next to me. He was skinny as fuck but, you know, if you're that tall there's a lot of leg and when there's a lot of leg, a lot of space is occupied. It was altogether uncomfortable, really humid and sticky and gross.
And then I spent about three hours with the gang in the blazing hot Australian summer (this was the kind of heat where you step outside and it's a fucking sauna. It's like the heat is just emanating from everywhere; from the ground, the walls. You can smell the shrubs in the air. It's like the heat is milking the leaves of their gumtree scent. Where you simply can't sit on the floor because you'll actually get a 2nd degree burn. This is the heat where people get heatstroke and die and they're not even in the wilderness. They are in civilisation!) looking at the club stalls. I joined Asia Club and got free mee goreng.
Fortunately, while I was playing with my free yoyo from the Greater Union stand, I had my free cup of Lipton ice tea in my mouth. Naturally, I was getting quite animated with my yoyo-ing and just sort of drenched my entire face, arm, bag in the ice tea. That added a nice additional level of stickiness to the day. It also prompted a realization out of both myself and Kim; I tend to spill drinks on myself a lot. As in, pretty much every time I go out for a meal or out with friends or to a party, I'll have a drink on me by the end of the day.
Kim's sister gave me a lift home (also, her boyfriend doesn't wear shoes in his house. How bizarre is that? He is white!) I ate some lunch, took a panadol and went and arranged some uni things on the internet while I still remembered them. About 40 minutes before Kim was due to come pick me up so I could help her and her sister set up for her birthday dinner I remembered, fuck, I still need to arrange her birthday present, I still need to take a shower (third of the day), I still need to wash my hair, get dressed, use my sweet new Covergirl Lash Blast mascara. I mean, shit was going down. As you can imagine, with all this rushing I was getting extremely flustered.
I still smell but I feel like I can't take another shower because that would be my fourth shower of the day...
That being said (feeling ill, being disgusting etc.) Kim's birthday was a total hit. I had so much fun catching up with everyone and just generally adore Kim and was happy to spend her 18th with her.
Also, her birthday cake was totes m'gotes delish. So, thanks babe, for a really great night.
J
Let's start off by saying it was fucking disgusting. Literally, within two seconds of stepping out of my house, I was dripping wet (take that dirtily if you feel like a little tipple), smelled heinously and just felt generally ill. Little Mishelle and I went into the city for a second so I could get Kim something to add to her birthday present (happy 18th!) and so I could buy a skirt or something similarly "dressy" to wear to Kim's 18th dinner that night. Naturally, we were running late and so mad dashing ensued. We just managed to get the bus to uni and, lo and behold, I was even sweatier, smellier and iller (?).
This only got worse as we went to the commencement ceremony. It was in an outdoor area where they usually hold the Perth film festival during summer. If you've been to the outdoor cinema before you'll know what I'm refering to; those hammock-like chairs where you sit down and sort of sink into it. It's incredibly uncomfortable. The situation was this: I was sweaty and smelly. I was acutely aware of how disgusting I smelled and looked. Because of my uncomfortable seating arrangement, my top was pulled haphazardly, exposing more cleave than I would have liked and there was this insanely tall guy sitting next to me. He was skinny as fuck but, you know, if you're that tall there's a lot of leg and when there's a lot of leg, a lot of space is occupied. It was altogether uncomfortable, really humid and sticky and gross.
And then I spent about three hours with the gang in the blazing hot Australian summer (this was the kind of heat where you step outside and it's a fucking sauna. It's like the heat is just emanating from everywhere; from the ground, the walls. You can smell the shrubs in the air. It's like the heat is milking the leaves of their gumtree scent. Where you simply can't sit on the floor because you'll actually get a 2nd degree burn. This is the heat where people get heatstroke and die and they're not even in the wilderness. They are in civilisation!) looking at the club stalls. I joined Asia Club and got free mee goreng.
Fortunately, while I was playing with my free yoyo from the Greater Union stand, I had my free cup of Lipton ice tea in my mouth. Naturally, I was getting quite animated with my yoyo-ing and just sort of drenched my entire face, arm, bag in the ice tea. That added a nice additional level of stickiness to the day. It also prompted a realization out of both myself and Kim; I tend to spill drinks on myself a lot. As in, pretty much every time I go out for a meal or out with friends or to a party, I'll have a drink on me by the end of the day.
Kim's sister gave me a lift home (also, her boyfriend doesn't wear shoes in his house. How bizarre is that? He is white!) I ate some lunch, took a panadol and went and arranged some uni things on the internet while I still remembered them. About 40 minutes before Kim was due to come pick me up so I could help her and her sister set up for her birthday dinner I remembered, fuck, I still need to arrange her birthday present, I still need to take a shower (third of the day), I still need to wash my hair, get dressed, use my sweet new Covergirl Lash Blast mascara. I mean, shit was going down. As you can imagine, with all this rushing I was getting extremely flustered.
I still smell but I feel like I can't take another shower because that would be my fourth shower of the day...
That being said (feeling ill, being disgusting etc.) Kim's birthday was a total hit. I had so much fun catching up with everyone and just generally adore Kim and was happy to spend her 18th with her.
Also, her birthday cake was totes m'gotes delish. So, thanks babe, for a really great night.
J
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Another Humiliating Episode
Working at an office, taking phone calls has ruined me. The other day, my mum's old friends from school (and my mum's like 50, I wonder if I'll still be in touch with my primary school friends when I'm that ancient) came over to our house for dinner. I was introducing myself to one of them and they asked me to repeat my name. Instead of saying, "Junaberry," I said, "This is Junaberry," like I was talking to someone on the phone.
Thank God my other habit of mumbling everything I say also took over and I don't think the guy heard. Otherwise that would have been all sorts of embarrassing.
Also, good Lord, there is so much goodness to be had from this Taylor Swift video. She sounds amazing. Let's be honest: this would be make even the hardest man cry.
J
Thank God my other habit of mumbling everything I say also took over and I don't think the guy heard. Otherwise that would have been all sorts of embarrassing.
Also, good Lord, there is so much goodness to be had from this Taylor Swift video. She sounds amazing. Let's be honest: this would be make even the hardest man cry.
J
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Travesty of Non-Elasticized Waists
The most pertinent issue at hand right now is the fact that I feel uncomfortable in anything more than pyjamas.
It's probably due to months of slothing around in barely anything more binding than elasticized shorts and massive, oversized t-shirts. And then, every other week, I have to get dress in incredibly uncomfortable dress pants and shirts with buttons and things with tight sleeves; periods of time which I tend to try and block out.
My oversized, overgrown belly screams, "What is happening?! What is this?! A button sticking into me?!" My flabby arms wail, "Good God! This is a travesty! I cannot feel myself anymore!" The worst thing is that I planned on wearing mostly shorts and t-shirts and jeans to uni when uni starts... in less than a week (good God! This is a travesty!). Add to this my love for elasticized waists and I have to admit I'm dreading starting uni. I find t-shirts and jeans uncomfortable now and am dreading wearing proper clothes every single day. Not that I ever really found jeans that comfortable. I mean, buttons and zippers? No one wants that. Hence I bought some jeggings. But even jeggings are uncomfortable because they continuously slip down and bare my ass crack to the whole world and God to see.
What is the solution to this problem? Dresses/skirts?
Hell no. Loyal readers will remember my great and largely repetitive rants about why dresses and skirts suck ass beyond all other clothes. For the gist of it, when you're running away from a murdering rapist/hungry zombie do you really want to be hampered by things like clingy skirts and flippy dresses? The thing is, it's incredibly difficult to run in skirts/dresses. It's like sticking two legs in one leg sleeve (leg sleeve?). Think about it carefully, folks. Furthermore, despite having more important things than your modesty when running away from murdering rapists/hungry zombies, the fact is you're probably going to be holding your skirt/dress down if you're wearing one that tends to flip/ride up. It's just habit and you probably don't want to be holding down your skirt/dress when running from flesh eating/invading beasts.
Back to the matter at hand.
Can I really wear elasticized waisted bottoms to uni or is that a travesty in itself?
J
It's probably due to months of slothing around in barely anything more binding than elasticized shorts and massive, oversized t-shirts. And then, every other week, I have to get dress in incredibly uncomfortable dress pants and shirts with buttons and things with tight sleeves; periods of time which I tend to try and block out.
My oversized, overgrown belly screams, "What is happening?! What is this?! A button sticking into me?!" My flabby arms wail, "Good God! This is a travesty! I cannot feel myself anymore!" The worst thing is that I planned on wearing mostly shorts and t-shirts and jeans to uni when uni starts... in less than a week (good God! This is a travesty!). Add to this my love for elasticized waists and I have to admit I'm dreading starting uni. I find t-shirts and jeans uncomfortable now and am dreading wearing proper clothes every single day. Not that I ever really found jeans that comfortable. I mean, buttons and zippers? No one wants that. Hence I bought some jeggings. But even jeggings are uncomfortable because they continuously slip down and bare my ass crack to the whole world and God to see.
What is the solution to this problem? Dresses/skirts?
Hell no. Loyal readers will remember my great and largely repetitive rants about why dresses and skirts suck ass beyond all other clothes. For the gist of it, when you're running away from a murdering rapist/hungry zombie do you really want to be hampered by things like clingy skirts and flippy dresses? The thing is, it's incredibly difficult to run in skirts/dresses. It's like sticking two legs in one leg sleeve (leg sleeve?). Think about it carefully, folks. Furthermore, despite having more important things than your modesty when running away from murdering rapists/hungry zombies, the fact is you're probably going to be holding your skirt/dress down if you're wearing one that tends to flip/ride up. It's just habit and you probably don't want to be holding down your skirt/dress when running from flesh eating/invading beasts.
Back to the matter at hand.
Can I really wear elasticized waisted bottoms to uni or is that a travesty in itself?
J
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Facebook Name Change Office
The other day I "sent in a request to change my facebook name." Originally, my surname on facebook was Bale. You know, to signify my undying love for Christian Bale. But I figured that, seeing as I was starting uni soon and all, I should probably make my facebook name my real name so as to not confuse anyone.
People can be easily misled, you see, and could think I was somehow related to Christian or something... and that would be heinous. That would be incest and I don't want that.
It got me thinking as I saw the words "your request has been sent in" appear on my monitor. It then went on to explain how we have "limited name changes" to make sure people use their real name. My first facebook name was just my real name spelt backwards. My second facebook name had my real first name and Bale as my surname. Now it's just my real name. But what made facebook decide that that transition was a normal one?
Are there people just sitting around in the facebook office, doing skits of The Social Network ("Oh ho, I like socks with sandals too!"), when they're not busy looking at people's name change requests? I mean, did they just come across mine and decide that hey, Junaberry is a perfectly acceptable transition from Yrrebanuj, let's approve her! And that hey, she's just changed her surname from Bale to Asshead. That's completely normal. I love that surname. Such individuality, so much passion, so much personality. She probably married a gq-motherfucker named Christian Asshead. Let's approve her!
Really now.
J
People can be easily misled, you see, and could think I was somehow related to Christian or something... and that would be heinous. That would be incest and I don't want that.
It got me thinking as I saw the words "your request has been sent in" appear on my monitor. It then went on to explain how we have "limited name changes" to make sure people use their real name. My first facebook name was just my real name spelt backwards. My second facebook name had my real first name and Bale as my surname. Now it's just my real name. But what made facebook decide that that transition was a normal one?
Are there people just sitting around in the facebook office, doing skits of The Social Network ("Oh ho, I like socks with sandals too!"), when they're not busy looking at people's name change requests? I mean, did they just come across mine and decide that hey, Junaberry is a perfectly acceptable transition from Yrrebanuj, let's approve her! And that hey, she's just changed her surname from Bale to Asshead. That's completely normal. I love that surname. Such individuality, so much passion, so much personality. She probably married a gq-motherfucker named Christian Asshead. Let's approve her!
Really now.
J
Friday, February 18, 2011
Introductions in Real Life
My mum just yelled at me, literally yelled at me like I was some sort of hooligan masturbating on the street corner, "Stop eating! All you've been doing is eating since you got home!" I did not appreciate the outburst and, instead of finding it "constructive criticism" as she would have insisted if I'd said anything, found it completely rude and insensitive. Now I feel fat and ugly. Parents are great like that.
I went to enroll in uni yesterday. I went really early as I got a lift with my dad down on his way to work. At "step one" of enrolment, this girl comes up to me and says, "Is your name Junaberry?" I look at her. She is Asian, she is small of stature. There's a good chance I know her. "Yes..?" To this she says, "We met at PACES," and I reply, "Oh, you're Meiling!" Henceforth we completed enrolment together. Three hours together and this was only the second time I've met her. Fair enough, she's friends with Big Michelle and so we do have a mutual friend and thus this lessens the strangeness.
This encounter really got me thinking about socializing and making friends. I mentioned before about the Jewish guy I met at my first aid course who I spent 45 minutes talking to after the course. To this day I still don't know his name and he probably doesn't know mine. Isn't that bizarre? You watch movies and television and you see people meeting someone new. It always goes along the lines of this:
Person A: Hi there! I think I saw you the other day at the swimming pool. My name's Francesca Schiavone.
Person B: Oh yeah! I thought I recognized you! I'm Robert. Robert Soderling. That's my name. Don't wear it out! Har har har.
Person A: Nice to meet you, Robert. So what are you doing 'round these parts?
Person B: Oh, just meeting up with my drug dealer. E tu?
And so on, so forth. This is completely misleading (as far as I'm concerned) because I think introductions are very different in real life when there is no script, thoughts are racing, awkwardness is on the uprise. The situation is much more similar to this:
Jewish Guy: Oh hey.
Me: 'Sup?
Jewish Guy: Not much. You waiting for your ride too?
Me: Yeah. I couldn't be bothered catching a bus. Too hot.
Jewish Guy: Totes. I hate the hot weather.
Me: Same.
And so on, so forth goes this riveting conversation. Finally, "Jewish Guy" and "Me" get to the point in the conversation where they're talking about their hopes and dreams and they still don't know each others' names and then they get to the point when one ("Jewish Guy") of their rides gets there and they leave and still, no names have passed through lips nor nicknames nor anything else which identifies them as uniquely them besides their freckles and dots.
What's up with that?
It makes meeting for a second time a whole lot more awkward:
Jewish Guy: Oh hey... you!
Me: Hi! Good to see you again... you. How's it going?
Jewish Guy: Great. Just great.
Me: Alright... I'm going to leave now.
J
I went to enroll in uni yesterday. I went really early as I got a lift with my dad down on his way to work. At "step one" of enrolment, this girl comes up to me and says, "Is your name Junaberry?" I look at her. She is Asian, she is small of stature. There's a good chance I know her. "Yes..?" To this she says, "We met at PACES," and I reply, "Oh, you're Meiling!" Henceforth we completed enrolment together. Three hours together and this was only the second time I've met her. Fair enough, she's friends with Big Michelle and so we do have a mutual friend and thus this lessens the strangeness.
This encounter really got me thinking about socializing and making friends. I mentioned before about the Jewish guy I met at my first aid course who I spent 45 minutes talking to after the course. To this day I still don't know his name and he probably doesn't know mine. Isn't that bizarre? You watch movies and television and you see people meeting someone new. It always goes along the lines of this:
Person A: Hi there! I think I saw you the other day at the swimming pool. My name's Francesca Schiavone.
Person B: Oh yeah! I thought I recognized you! I'm Robert. Robert Soderling. That's my name. Don't wear it out! Har har har.
Person A: Nice to meet you, Robert. So what are you doing 'round these parts?
Person B: Oh, just meeting up with my drug dealer. E tu?
And so on, so forth. This is completely misleading (as far as I'm concerned) because I think introductions are very different in real life when there is no script, thoughts are racing, awkwardness is on the uprise. The situation is much more similar to this:
Jewish Guy: Oh hey.
Me: 'Sup?
Jewish Guy: Not much. You waiting for your ride too?
Me: Yeah. I couldn't be bothered catching a bus. Too hot.
Jewish Guy: Totes. I hate the hot weather.
Me: Same.
And so on, so forth goes this riveting conversation. Finally, "Jewish Guy" and "Me" get to the point in the conversation where they're talking about their hopes and dreams and they still don't know each others' names and then they get to the point when one ("Jewish Guy") of their rides gets there and they leave and still, no names have passed through lips nor nicknames nor anything else which identifies them as uniquely them besides their freckles and dots.
What's up with that?
It makes meeting for a second time a whole lot more awkward:
Jewish Guy: Oh hey... you!
Me: Hi! Good to see you again... you. How's it going?
Jewish Guy: Great. Just great.
Me: Alright... I'm going to leave now.
J
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Registering Builders Ain't So Bad
The most hilarious thing happened at work. Seriously. Situate yourself, please.
This is the scenario. I work in a four storey building. I am situated on the first floor (which, in my opinion, should really be called the second floor. Isn't it just confusing having a ground floor?). After lunch, I'm taking the elevator up to my floor. I get in after another guy. Upon entering I notice the letter head on the document he's holding. It's for the engineering firm located on the third floor.
Ah, my keen deductive/observational skills coming into play, you see.
We get to the first floor and I exit. Behind me trails the guy who has pressed the third floor button. He comes out onto my floor and looks bewildered around him as if he's entered hell; where am I? his expression screams. He literally turns around 360 degrees. I scurry away before I can guffaw in his face.
My amusement knows no bounds.
J
This is the scenario. I work in a four storey building. I am situated on the first floor (which, in my opinion, should really be called the second floor. Isn't it just confusing having a ground floor?). After lunch, I'm taking the elevator up to my floor. I get in after another guy. Upon entering I notice the letter head on the document he's holding. It's for the engineering firm located on the third floor.
Ah, my keen deductive/observational skills coming into play, you see.
We get to the first floor and I exit. Behind me trails the guy who has pressed the third floor button. He comes out onto my floor and looks bewildered around him as if he's entered hell; where am I? his expression screams. He literally turns around 360 degrees. I scurry away before I can guffaw in his face.
My amusement knows no bounds.
J
Monday, February 14, 2011
"Short" Self Control
I have no self control.
And I'm not just talking about junk food (although that's certainly true. Just ask Little Mishelle who I forced to eat a whole hunk of hedgehog slice with me today so I wouldn't feel like a fat ass... although I do) but about other things in life. Various things in life.
I have no self control when it comes to control. For example, the other day I hemmed some shorts of mine and they turned out pretty wonky and all over the place. To the trained eye at least. I wore them when I hung out with Little Mishelle today and forced her to gaze at my sweet yet supple ass to determine whether the right leg was longer than the left. Sure, she said no at least five times but at the end of the day, who am I going to believe? Her or my well trained eye?
I mean, prior to meeting up with her this morning I actually stared at my own ass for a good 10 minutes in the mirror to ensure the right leg was actually not longer than the left leg. Furthermore, as embarrassing as this is to admit, I even took picture evidence to analyse closely. Just the mirror is not enough because looking at your own ass in the mirror involves twisting and turning which can cause pantaloons to become skewed and also can skew the perspective of the observer thus causing one of the legs to look longer than the other when in fact it isn't at all.
So, naturally, I set my camera to the 10 second timer, hopped in front of it, took a couple of pictures and quickly looked at them as closely as I could. I couldn't come to a decided conclusion. Had I just hiked up one side more than the other? What was that crease doing? Maybe that was the cause of the skewiff leg lengths. This went on for a good 20 minutes at least. I tried to stop looking and obsessing. I tried, really. But I couldn't. I tried to sit down and read a book. No, it wasn't going to happen. I could almost feel the uneveness of my shorts legs just jabbing me with their ridiculous proportions and irregularity.
Eventually, the time came when I had to walk over to meet up with Little Mishelle and so ensued the antics of her looking at my ass. Soon I found other irregularities with my mish-mashed hemming job and for the rest of the day I couldn't stop thinking about them. Good God, what if someone noticed these irregularities? What if they thought I was some sort of country bumpkin? Someone who couldn't afford a proper seamstress to hem my pantaloons?
I tried, I tried desperately to stop the thoughts, the nightmarish visions of pantaloons with one long leg and one short. It was so hard. You have no idea what it's like to be me. It was like this worm that had just invaded my bowels and was gnawing at my innards, whispering, "Unpick and hem them again! Unpick! Hem! Again! Now!" It literally took all my will power to not unpick and re-hem them the second I got home this afternoon.
What is wrong with me?
J
And I'm not just talking about junk food (although that's certainly true. Just ask Little Mishelle who I forced to eat a whole hunk of hedgehog slice with me today so I wouldn't feel like a fat ass... although I do) but about other things in life. Various things in life.
I have no self control when it comes to control. For example, the other day I hemmed some shorts of mine and they turned out pretty wonky and all over the place. To the trained eye at least. I wore them when I hung out with Little Mishelle today and forced her to gaze at my sweet yet supple ass to determine whether the right leg was longer than the left. Sure, she said no at least five times but at the end of the day, who am I going to believe? Her or my well trained eye?
I mean, prior to meeting up with her this morning I actually stared at my own ass for a good 10 minutes in the mirror to ensure the right leg was actually not longer than the left leg. Furthermore, as embarrassing as this is to admit, I even took picture evidence to analyse closely. Just the mirror is not enough because looking at your own ass in the mirror involves twisting and turning which can cause pantaloons to become skewed and also can skew the perspective of the observer thus causing one of the legs to look longer than the other when in fact it isn't at all.
So, naturally, I set my camera to the 10 second timer, hopped in front of it, took a couple of pictures and quickly looked at them as closely as I could. I couldn't come to a decided conclusion. Had I just hiked up one side more than the other? What was that crease doing? Maybe that was the cause of the skewiff leg lengths. This went on for a good 20 minutes at least. I tried to stop looking and obsessing. I tried, really. But I couldn't. I tried to sit down and read a book. No, it wasn't going to happen. I could almost feel the uneveness of my shorts legs just jabbing me with their ridiculous proportions and irregularity.
Eventually, the time came when I had to walk over to meet up with Little Mishelle and so ensued the antics of her looking at my ass. Soon I found other irregularities with my mish-mashed hemming job and for the rest of the day I couldn't stop thinking about them. Good God, what if someone noticed these irregularities? What if they thought I was some sort of country bumpkin? Someone who couldn't afford a proper seamstress to hem my pantaloons?
I tried, I tried desperately to stop the thoughts, the nightmarish visions of pantaloons with one long leg and one short. It was so hard. You have no idea what it's like to be me. It was like this worm that had just invaded my bowels and was gnawing at my innards, whispering, "Unpick and hem them again! Unpick! Hem! Again! Now!" It literally took all my will power to not unpick and re-hem them the second I got home this afternoon.
What is wrong with me?
J
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