This noodle is foot-shaped!

It still says that on my foot. Since I was using the arm of his chair as a footrest, I was apparently an irresistable target for Matthew to poke with a pen. So naturally I kicked him back--or flailed at him with my foot--and so he wrote on my foot. It tickled. This morning I couldn't figure out why there was red stuff on my foot; I looked more closely and remembered that this noodle is foot-shaped and the ink was red.

I think my bras are out to get me. Is that an unreasonable thing to think? Not only are a bunch of them not particularly comfortable or fun to wear (which is the nature of bras), but now they're starting to have only one usable hook. This happened a bit ago and I thought, well, that's just a thing that happens someties. But now this bra is like that too, and I'm pretty sure it's not the same one. It is--was--one of my less-uncomfortable bras, of course. Thus, my bras are out to get me. I'm too poor to want to buy new ones.

I am dating the Queen of England. Did you know that? I didn't, until this weekend. That boy never tells me anything ...

Okay, now I know my pants are out to get me. The pair I'm wearing developed a big, nasty tear right under the back pocket as I was sitting in the living room talking to Josh (it was a fun conversation; at one point it immediately and flawlessly morphed from sex to economics). This wouldn't bother me except I now have only two pairs of paints I can wear, because another pair tore a couple weeks ago. I lack both the necessary transportation and the funds to buy new pants.

I hate clothes. I'm going to boycott them, and go around naked. No, wait: I'll just wear pajamas. That's better. I love pajamas, and they haven't betrayed me.