Adapting (#GirlCrush)

So to adapt I had to muster from the lowest depths of my bowels the manliest bark possible, either that or simply stop talking. I chose the latter, as there was a period in my life where my voice was so high-pitched only dogs could hear me.


Because on Mondays you have a completely different voice in your head. Should I bump into a reflective surface I shall most certainly have a minor mirror meltdown: My skin is so oily America threatens to invade; my hair hangs there like a redish ironed curtain. My eyebrows underline my forehead, like hairy caterpillars, major issue because weak eyebrows = weak presentation. All the while I try and crack a glossy half-smile but wind up looking constipated.