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August 20, 2015

Limp Throttle

This is my car Alvin:

"My name is Alvin, and I only get baths once a year.  Nice to meet 'cha!"

in a parking garage, he tried to hit on this sexy, hot tomato. 

A hot boxster.
Poor Alvin.  She's totally out of his league.  My little roadster and I drove home, and I put up his top so that no one would see him weeping in the parking lot, listening to Adele.  

Booby Trapped

I ordered a shirt six weeks ago from male friend, and it finally arrived, but with a tear in the collar.  I was so annoyed that I sent a mean email bitching about it, demanding a refund.  He apologized, told me to keep it, and that he would send a new shirt immediately.

I felt so awful that I sent an apology email telling him not to send me a new shirt, bought another shirt, then attached a photo of me in my underwear sewing the rip.  Not to be seductive (I see people as big bags of smelly goo), but because it's easier to forgive people in their underwear due to them being so non-threatening.  It's the same theory as picturing the audience naked.  

Normally I would be horrified to post a picture like this, but yesterday I was going through old photos and discovered that no matter how hard I try to get rid of those "boudoir" pics from my early twenties, you know, the ones that seemed like a great Valentine's Day present, they'll always reappear.  By this point, I have no idea who owns photos of young me in my underwear, but the more I succeed as a writer, the more likely they'll reappear.

HA!  By the time I'm well-known enough to blackmailed, I'll be well-known enough that people will say, "These are surprisingly more tasteful than I'd expect."  So suck on that, guys whose basements haven't flooded.  

Next is my bikini photo to Target letting them know how much I love their dish soap...
And I'm sorry for not putting things back where I find them.