Well, Then You Are Pretty, Mr. Queen

I don't understand myself sometimes. And really, my bestest friend ought to do her job and not allow me to speak around men in uniform. On my way to the Sunshine State, there were a few Air Force boys and I told 'em I'd give them all the money in my wallet [it was starving, so they wouldn'ta gotten much] if they'd strip 'cause I do love a man outta his uniform as much as I like 'im in it. Now this. At the school were some very nice gents, no clue what branch they were in [Navy or Marines, I'm not dumb, just special] and a girl told one he was pretty.

"Pretty? Now, I woulda gone with handsome or stoically...erotic anyway, pretty works. Je peut dire: Vous etes joli, monsieur. C'est gauche mais..." Is my French terrible? I was in France for three days. It might be terrible. But I digress... Someone asked if the man's last name really was Queen and he said it was, and I have no brain-to-mouth filter so I blurted ever so kindly, "Well, then, you are pretty, Mr. Queen." So now you know.

These guys with ridiculously deep voices came through my line the other day. I'm bad at flirting. Maybe someday someone'll like that. Anyway, that wasn't important.

My first ever blood donation is tomorrow at two. Good times.

Yesterday, I had this very nice photographer Katie Chapman, whose link is in the title, do my senior photos. Sweet woman, really nice. Go to her. Tell her Shaylee sent you. It won't get you a discount, but I told her I'd tell people so, there you are.

I took some valerian root pills in hopes that it'd make me sleep, I'm tired. So tired. Maybe I should crash some help groups and pretend I'm dying. Would that help me sleep? Did alright in Fight Club. Anyway, it tasted like the smell of old socks.

I hate people who smell bad. I s'pose this is my slandering post but where are your friends, people that smell like B.O.? I would love to be nice to you, but I can't breathe around you. Shower. Antiperspirent. Look 'em up.

xoxo