So, I'm firmly behind my lovely boyfriends statements that the world is ending. I mean, this has got to be biblical or something, cause this heath can't be natural. Anyways, I work full-time now, in my lovely airconditioned store with delightful customers who ask me, in engrish, whether or not our silicone boob implants can actually be fitted surgically into breasts. Can anybody really think that? I mean, did he believe that he would go to a surgeon and ask for a boob job and the surgeon would say: "Sure man, anything you say. But hey, why don't you pop out for a minute and buy the silicon implants for 399'- at the local sexshop"...yeah, that makes sense...
My evenings is spent with this victorian dress I have already told you about. It is to hot to work with, I get cranky and tired and take it out on my boyfriend who is actually nice enough to help me, and the dress is slowly but dreadfully nearing its finish. I am now ready to accept that it will not be perfect, it will wrinkle and the arms will be a little too small. Tough titties for me.
Here is the curse: Now that this dress is over, I'll have to start over again on the next one. It is unfair and unkind. It will be lovely, I've bought five meters of dark green silk that will look smashing on me, now the only problem is my skills...ain't that a good sign. Then, I will have to have Victorian underwear, and nightgown, and purse, and I should have another hat, and the larp is two weeks away. This is not working, as it never is...cursed by the gods to fail I tell you! No, I will probably look okay, as long as noone checks under my dress.