Sat next to this woman on the subway today who had black writing tattooed on the inside of her left wrist. How much must it have hurt to have that done? What if the artist accidentally hit one of the bluish tributaries of her veins a fountain of blood spouted out? It makes me squirm to think of it. Anyway, on sidelong glance, it looked as though her tattoo read "just friends." It made me think that maybe she went to the tattoo parlor with some guy who really wanted their relationship to progress, and she agreed, but decided that she would make their status clear to him and thereby had "just friends" written permanently on her wrist. Finally realized that it really read "just breathe." That made a little more sense, I suppose.
I can expand my claims to regular column writings to include a writing tips piece I turned in today for Philadelphia Stories (from an adaptation of an earlier blog post about writing pet peeves). I feel hypocritical though since I haven't worked on a full story for a long, long time and haven't been sending out the pieces I do have.
I'm also having an internal moral struggle b/c I did receive this coupon from V. Secrets which allows me a free pair of panties PLUS $10 off any bra I want in the entire universe, but if I use it, that means that I will likely never, ever, never stop getting these emails and postcards and candygrams and sky-writing messages from them. Plus, I don't need another bra. But still, who wouldn't want to own this bra (and the girdle is only an extra $59.99):
My mom wants me to post more pictures of myself here, and not just my icky fingernails (see yesterday). Here, mother, here is another body part.