I wanted to write a nice post about enjoyment. Because that’s what I did with the weekend, I enjoyed it. But I can’t. It’s Monday. It feels like a Monday. The pigwig has to go back to the vet, because after doing great on Saturday, he’s now breathing oddly again. My friends think they can fix my hormones after generations of doctors have been unsuccessful in the past 20 years. This is what I look like. Get used to it. I did. Why, at a point when I’m finally happy, serene and content, people think I need a fucking makeover? Will it make the world a better place? Will it make me a better person or a less embarassing friend to be seen with in public? Leave… me… alone! I like being happy, serene and content, and I don’t need a new face, a new body or a friggin’ walk-in closet full of clothes I can’t afford to improve my chances of being hit on by one of those degenerated males YOU people don’t want for yourselves!
It really is a crying shame that I don’t get those customary fifteen weeks of vacation my German friends seem to get. Because if I did, I could finally really disappear for a while.