REAL ENTRY: So I'm on my short walk this morning (7 miles because I am Sasha Fierce, Beyonce) and cars are passing, the occupants starring at me. I hate being stared at, incidentally. I'm growing more irritated with every car passing me (and I'm walking into the wind, y'all know that stiff winds ARE MY ENEMY,) and begin to get paranoid, because I'm nothing if not a rational, calm human.
Are my tits hanging out?
Am I popping nips?
Is there blood on my leg, or is a giant man in a frightening mask following me?
On and on. A landscaper riding a lawn tractor is SLOWING DOWN and staring at me quizzically, and that's it. I stomp over to some trees under the pretense of "stretching" and check myself out. Fine, fine, everything covered, nothing amiss, WHATEVER, PEOPLE. I grab my mp3 player out of my waistband (I'm wearing a new pair of capri-length leggings that don't have a pocket, so my mp3 player is jammed in my waist band. Because of my walking, it's slipped down a bit. Ahem. And I see that the cord for my headphones is hanging down enough so that it's tucked up into my ladybidness, so to passers by, it appears that I have jammed an iPod up my cooze for safe keeping, or some such.
I WOULD STARE AT THAT, TOO.
Jesus hell, people, you can't take me anywhere. Oh, the laughing I did at myself, which only made more cars wonder about the crazy lady on the side of the road, probably setting her thingamabob to vibrate and enjoying herself in public. BWAH.
The World: A billion