Look under there!
◊ This whole day is going very slightly wrong.
For one, I'm wearing a shirt with a Playboy bunny logo on it. For two, my hair is parted on the opposite side from normal.
For three, I thought I heard my phone go off and it didn't. I never, ever, ever write in lists because I think they're stupid, but -- for four -- what the hell would you call this?
And, though numerically it counts as number five, this next one should count for five through 20:
I'm wearing underwear.
I, the Commando Queen, am wearing lacy black underwear gathered at the sides with little red ribbons that tie off, of all the ridiculous things, in little bows.
You gotta understand: I don't wear underwear. I'll don them from time to time, mostly to tease some hapless guy. "Look! I'm wearing cute underwear! And you'll never guess what's written across the back of them!" That sort of thing.
Underwear are worn with the idea of removing them at the first opportunity so licking and/or fucking can ensue, or underneath extremely short skirts. Which, come to think of it, are also worn to facilitate licking and fucking.
And here I am, wearing underwear beneath my jeans, and I haven't had sex all day.
For fuck's sake. This is ridiculous. What good is it having a boyfriend if he's not always at my beck and call, ready to bring me soda and have sex with me whenever I like?
Oh, right. He's at work, getting money so he can buy me stuff.
I think I'm the only girl on the planet that prefers sex to money.