Wine & Bleach

So last night I made a string of wildly ridiculous observations after the application of bleach blonde hair dye which may or may not have been in there too long and 3/4 of a bottle of wine. 


1) I cry at almost anything mildly emotional. I am not talking about those commercials about abused pets or starving children in Africa (though these are two types of commercials banned from my viewing for that reason), but things like the Olympics. I am that person that actually cried watching BOLT (an animated tale of a dog - made for small children) and not because the dog died or anything (no no) but because at the end he finds his little girl again. If someone's dream is coming true, or they are falling in love, or their heart was just broken, or they lost their animal, or the cool kid stuck up for them, or they won, or they lost - I am crying like baby. The one that gets me EVERYTIME is 'TV love.' Anything that has anything to do with TV love is too much for me. Real love - HA! Piece of cake. There are no ridiculous songs being sung outside windows, or someone purchasing a star in your name in real life okay? The most romantic real love gets for me is East Side Mario's on a Saturday - or my fiance offering to pay for ALL the groceries this time since I am low on cash this pay cheque. Nothing to be deemed tear-worthy.


2) Free-bras remind me of chicken cutlets. In fact, it appears they also feel like chicken cutlets. Which makes me wonder why we would ever bother wearing them in the first place. I can barely get myself to handle raw chicken to make a meal, never mind stick it on my breasts for what they have decided to call 'support'. When I look like I just walked out of a 70s film in the heat of August, you cannot call it 'support'. They should look like Meghan Fox not bloody flapjacks. Though, if you ever get stuck on a date wherein your new interest MUST see these hideous excuses for a bra, all you have to say is this: "Annnnddd (like you have another surprise for him)... I brought dinner." Give a cutsey little Vanna White pose and smile. Hopefully he'll laugh. Let's face it, the alternative is having to stare at his disgusted face as you peel these things off and wipe your breasts down with a baby wipe because otherwise your chest will start collecting all sorts of souvenirs (dog hair, fluff, sheets). 




LAWTON OUT