It's an entry about my boobs! And yet it is still so fricking boring. Go me.11:05 a.m. - 2004-02-20
I hate Word SO MUCH! I started to type out an entry in there (I'm at school, because I never use Word at home, I use Works), and it screwed it up, so now words are missing, and the entry is flipped around so it starts off cutting off another sentence, and I just hate Word. Okay? Lets leave it at that.
Anyway.
Bonjour! Moving on to my planned topic, this will be a boob-centric entry. If you aren't interested in the various trials and tribulations involved with having (and being) my boobs, don't bother reading this entry. Although, I do plan on complaining about the weather, too. I'm giving you just thrills of excitement, aren't I?
First a little background, on the vocab. I'm going to be using in this entry. I won't be using the more technical "b" word, because I am listed on Google, and I don't want to attract a lot of people who are looking for a different type of website. If you know what I mean. I debated heavily on whether to even use the word "boobs", because that is also possibly googled looking for *eh hem* something else entirely. I was going to use the extremely unlikely to be googled term "Upper girlie bits" but I have decided against that. Why? Boobs= 5 letters. Upper girlie bits= 15 letters. I'm all about the math.
So, I went to the gym yesterday, all excited about using the elliptical machine. Which, by the way, I love. I would gladly have it's little elliptical babies, if it were to ask me to. So, I didn't want to put my keys in my pockets, for fear it would throw off my stride. Huh. Where to put the keys? I can't leave them in my locker, cause then I can't open it *fret fret fret*. Wait! I know! It's about time that these things in front of my pectorals came to some use. They are big enough that I can just place my keys in the hollow between, inside my bra! It's like a centrally located pocket! (How many keys are on my clip? I'm not going to tell.)
So, in the keys went, and I checked in the mirror to make sure they wen't visible. Nope. All was well. I was off to the gym. I climbed on the elliptical and found it remarkably easy to use. Just hit the button!
Hmmm... da da da. Ah. 10 minutes go by.
I'm a little sweaty. I hope the sweat isn't corrosive to my keys, should I ever decide to store them in that conveinent cubbyhole again.
Another 5 minutes go by. Errr... I'm starting to feel a little chafing. I am allergic to metal. Oh, but I'm only going to be on here for a half hour. I'm sure it is just in my imagination.
Another 15 minutes go by. I leave, and open my locker and put away my keys, and then stretch a few times. The boobs? Seem fine. No compaints, but glad to have the keys out of their personal space.
So, I am done, I head up to the train, and head home.
A few hours pass.
*Ouch!* What is poking my boobs? Huh, there is nothing in there. How strange. Repeat every hour.
*Later that night* Ah, time to shower. *hums along to the Coldplay song playing in my head* Wah! What is that?!?!?!?!
Guess who developed a nice, painful rash between her bazongas? Guess I won't be storing my keys in there, anymore.
Damn useless boobs.
Today was the first day of the semester that I decided I didn't need to wear a coat. (heh heh heh. Foolish me. It's rainy and windy. I really should have worn a coat.) This morning, when I got on the train, a creepy man stared at my boobs and moved his backpack out of the way so I could sit next to him (this never happens, most people won't share a seat unless they know each other). I decided to sit in the empty seats in the train, behind him. Creepy man was reduced to staring at my boobs in the window reflection. Sorry, creepy man. By the way? I have a face. Look up a foot, please.
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