I was afraid of my closet. The floor of my closet of what I now know was: shoes, shoes, shoes, discarded Mylar balloons, weird discarded 7 pennies, random socks, which Smitty has blamed me for months, whatever. My closet was a benign symbol, much like the malignant " Bayou Shark," I recently witnessed with Kristy Swanson on SyFy Channel.
I cleaned the damn thing out, gimme a break. I found books I forgot I owned , shoes I dreamed I had, and clothes that I am now too damn voluptuous to wear. I hate my stupid closet. It's like a time capsule, designed to end in tears. No, I no longer wear a size 8 in those pants that were mocking my semi-deliverance denial into cleaning out my closet altogether. I hate my closet, but I love it too, like a Jewish, guilt-ridden goy at this point......Oh, Happy Roshashanah.
I threw you out, inane Old Navy, "tank shirts," if you think you can produce a tank shirt that covers actual human breasts, give me a call...mine are spectacular...maybe you need an ad...When did Old Navy become Pedophile United? There are no clothes now that fit beyond puberty, barring a special order? My blog grows angry. FYI: I cut and dyed red my own hair. I like my weird, brassy, partially uneven red hair. What??
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