Dear Diary,
Fluffy Bear is off at his yearly conference again, and I get to indulge in my Slobby Valentine.
Yes, dear Diary, it's pretty bad.
I have cute pajama pants on - red and white pattern with a little bow at the waist - bought about two years ago.
But the shirt that went with them stretched in the wash and frayed and was basically a reminder not to buy cheap sweat shop shit.
So I'm wearing some freebie T-shirt Fluffy Bear got from a local brewery with it. It's too big and too baggy and it has a picture of a fat guy drinking beer on it.
It also has a nice orange stain on the chest area, from some curry some evening where I decided to share dinner with my clothes.
My dressing gown (robe) has seen better days. Even hot washes don't get it to look white anymore. It's a slight grey/pinky color from dirt and an unfortunate wash with something red.
The belt thing has a big hole on one side due to a misunderstanding with Puppy Girl. I was walking along, robe open, with the belt hanging down, flapping at my side, and she mistook that for an invitation to play tug. The puppy piranha teeth did the rest.
Last but not least, the hair.
Styled by 8 hours of turning this way and that on the pillow, it defies gravity in ways mohawked punks would envy. If I could bottle whatever it is that makes my hair go all Medusa, I could put all hair gel manufacturers out of business.
Never one to not complete a look, it's acessorized with hairy armpits, hairy legs and toenails that haven't seen a pedicure in over a month.
How can I stand it?
It's simple... As long as I avoid the bathroom mirror, I can't see myself. Ten minutes after brushing my teeth, if I'm alone and I don't have to get ready to go out, I forget what I look like.
You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this, dear Diary. You didn't ask to know, you don't need to know and you probably really, really, really don't want to know.
Well, I had to.
It's all about setting the scene.
The background.
The context.
The milieu, if you will.
For what?
For the look of pure, unadulterated horror on the face of the Chugger (charity mugger) who came to the front door. It was probably the worst spiel he's ever given.
But, on the plus side, I didn't have to do much explaining about why I can't afford to contribute right now...
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