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Okay, I have issues with my looks. I'm never really satisfied with my appearance, and sometimes I manage to magnify my faults in my own mind until I'm convinced that I'm an absolute hideon. Mrs. Medusahead. A certified Department of Uglification Project. I'm not hideous, really, just sort of average. I'm usually clean and fairly okay-smelling, I wear enough makeup to keep from looking corpselike, and I'm usually clad in clean, decent-looking clothing. I'm not Agent G63, but I'm okay. If I want to feel gorgeous and stunning, I go to my local WalMart. Remember, I live in Chesapeake, a fairly redneck sort of place.WalMart is filled with skinny guys with no teeth and mullets, wearing Nascar hats and John Deere belt buckles, and their long-term common-law live-ins. Many of the womenfolks at WalMart are well past the 200 lb. mark and fond of tight stretch pants. Some have ventured into bellbottom-and-midriff territory normally inhabited by sweet young thangs who weigh six ounces. A lot of them are stranded in 1987. After a trip to WalMart, I feel like a goddess. Of course, the effect is dampened if a mullet boy actually ogles me-like, ew! Book of the Day: No More Dead Dogs by by Gordon Korman. About Wallace Wallace, a kid who never lies, and his English teacher, who is fond of those dead-canine novels, like Old Yeller and Sounder. Song on De Headbone: Quiche Lorraine by the B-52s |
 
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WalMart Beautification Project