This is my 1973 Super Beetle, 30 minutes after I picked it up from Sean's parents' house (shortly after I had washed the dirt and leaves out of it).
It doesn't look NEARLY as beat up now...of course, it's missing all the windows, seats and fenders, but they look nice on the garage floor.
People I haven't seen in a while ask me "what's going on with you," and there's usually nothing to tell them. What I'm not doing is much more interesting.
For example, I am not pregnant with the love child of a violent alcoholic. I am not in immediate danger of becoming pregnant by the same, but I am not taking any precautions so who knows.
I am not fighting a shadowy organization bent on discrediting me and destroying the only known copies of my research. In fact, nobody to date has ever shown any interest in my research whatsoever.
I am not publishing my wild, self serving memoirs in serial in a widely read weekend supplement. Which is a shame, because I think that's just the kind of reporting that could improve the respectability of Parade magazine.
I am not trying to protect the family of squirrels that live in the easterly maple tree in my front yard from the effects of the ice storm baring down on us like a shotgun full of snow.
I am wearing really masculine underwear today. There's this agressively designed pouch in the front and the legs go all the way down the thigh like those compression shorts football players wear. They're tough. Don't fuck with my undies, bitch.
Mood: sexy motherfucker.