|I'LL BE GODDAMNED IF I'LL BE OUTDONE BY MILEY CYRUS'S PET PIG|
(It's called a clue. Because if I didn't provide one this game would take all day.)
I had a day off yesterday and, as I do with all my days off, I selflessly devoted the time to bettering not only myself but also the assholetastic shitty of Brampton in which I begrudgingly live. (Which doesn't take much; the place is a cesspool even without Susan Fennell at the helm.) Anyway, I was going to just tell you what I did in that regard, but then I thought, "Why not make the little buggers work for it? Why should I be the only one striving for self-improvement? If you let them, they'd do nothing but sit around eating cheese curds all day and Googling Jian Ghomeshi."
So. Notice anything different about me? I tried to make it a fairly easy guess since I suspect some of you are on an intellectual par with my moron editor and also because, truth be told, I can't type a goddam word with these bloody talons I paid good money for. They look friggin amazing, they're shiny and sexy and the daintiest shell-pink, but they render even the simplest tasks virtually impossible. If I make it through three days without ripping them off my fingers one by painful one, it will be a miracle. It's great being a girl!
EDITOR'S NOTE: *leans in, stares at picture until eyeballs burst into flames* I give up. Is it ... you got a new hairdo?
MY NOTE: IT'S THE NAILS! I GOT NEW NAILS, YOU IMBECILE! (Why am I surprised? This happens every single time.)