Chip chip chip.

All band aids fell off when I woke up this morning. I don’t need them anymore anyway. I don’t know, I don’t feel significantly better but I don’t fancy band aids sticking around my chest, hurting my boobies aesthetically when I’m wearing a hot low cut V top. Especially when I’m now wearing a dark red 3/4 sleeve V top that would rock like mad if teamed with my charcoal A line long skirt.

But its all crap now because I’m not wearing that charcoal skirt but a fiery orange sarong.

Yes, I’m torn between a decision whether to go out boy oggling or stay at home with my dying plants on a friday morning.

Perhaps if I start putting on my platforms then it would be easier for me to determine which persistence should prevail. Hot boys vs dead plants. What would you do for boredom. Mourning. Dribble. And more dribbles?

I hate multichoice questions/answers.

Oh wait. Here’s another theory. After all that gratuitous plugging Juster has afforded me ( Justin, I appreciate it but I still think your hand and my pussy doesnt go together. The chemistry just isn’t there ) and now the opportunity to butt in his page whenever I fancy ( think defamation. Think of all the bribe I can get. Think of all the bribes you want to give me ), perhaps this is just a little gesture of mine to show a bit of respect to him. You know, not typing all this out in my baggy granny t-shirt and sarong.

For illustration sake, let’s pretend that this site is = the Grammies and…hey no, Grammies as in The Grammy Award shit not some anonymous group for hardcore granny t shirt wearers. Right, and I…WAIT!

Wearers? If you can forgive Juster for his bad english, you must ignore mine. Must.

Now that that is out of the way, let’s continue. Hmmm. Great, I lost my train of thoughts just because I had clarify a phrase or two and…and…*panic*..and….

Err. Its happening again.

* Very quickly* If all of above doesn’t apply. Okay, give me that Fashion-sense-hah?-what-fashion-sense? award.

Phew. That was close.