Hormones

It started yesterday while I was reading the Men's Fashions of the Times (don't worry, I'll leave it up to TMF,TML to offer mo' better opprobrium of the Gray Lady) and thought to myself, This is a pretty good issue. I mean, those photos of Chris Elliott (which don't appear to be online) made me laugh out loud. HAR. And those big gay Dolce and Gabbana ads.

No, maybe it started on Saturday when I awoke to find three throbbing, subcutaneous pimples on my face. Grr. I poked at them and made them angry. GRRRRRR. No amount of Bobbi Brown could render me camera-worthy for my aforementioned interview yesterday. I asked my friend to smear some Vaseline on the camera lens. "That's what they do for Cybil Shepherd," I pleaded. No dice. Finally he agreed to film me in a dark bar, which is my natural habitat anyhow.

Or maybe it started this morning, when I ran into my most favorite, recently departed work stud(y) guy at the front desk. "What on earth are you doing here," I asked, secretly wishing for a fan or a hijab to cover my grotesquely deformed face. "Oh, I'm back working in the office."

"Really. Well, then you owe us for that pizza we bought you on your last day."

John Waters would've fainted had he witnessed the sheer salaciousness of my arched eyebrow. Work study guy looked nervous.

(Commence breathing exercises at my desk.)