Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Die, you little bastard, die! I hate skin tags. And the little devils love me. Love me love me love me. They adorn my neck like mushrooms after rain, in little fairy circles. Gross, huh? Well, they're not quite as bad as all that. But I hate them and they are there, so on Saturday I got Bemo to tie two of them off with a little bit of thread. They have shriveled and turned black and will soon fall off. And I will rejoice. Boop recommended snipping them off, but as I pointed out to her, some of them are quite large and I don't want to be the first person in the history of the universe to die via bleeding to death through a hole where once lived a skin tag. So goes my aura of sophistication and glamour, huh? It probably doesn't matter that I watched Breakfast at Tiffany's the other day. Holly Golightly would never have had a skintag. Neither would Reese Witherspoon, which I know because I just watched Legally Blonde and Election over the weekend too. Not even one little skintag on her flawless white neck. Bah. That would be a good curse for somebody who crosses me. I've already cursed one person to baldness. So if you tick me off, I may just mutter a foul incantation, and the next day, my sworn enemy will wake up with skin tags popping up all over their body, like earthworms coming up through the soil on a rainy day. I think I just grossed myself out. 9:35 p.m. - 2002-05-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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