Dear all,

Dear all,

The following is, like, the WAY most important thing to have happened in my life recently. No, really.

Sunday was a Designer Warehouse Sale, where women gather to buy designer clothing and be bitchy to eat other. It was real 'Handbags at Dawn' material. There was a communal changing room, which was a whirlwind of norks, minge and designer threads. It is fodder for boyhood masturbation. For women, though, it is a chance for a 'model-off'. Who can sway their hips the best? Who has the least amount of cellulite (not her, *snigger* *bitch*)? Who has the best posture? I, on the other hand, wore foul underpants and couldn't be arsed to shave. I was the furry, pale pervert in the corner, people-watching these freaks with low self-esteem who make themselves feel better by being mean to people.

One girl swayed over to me, hands on hips, "I like that dress, what size is it." (Notice, that wasn't a question, it was a statement of low self-esteem.) "An 8."
"Hrph, let me try it on."
"Erm, OK, but I am going to buy it."
"Hrph."
"Hrph!"
"HRPHHH!!!"

Honestly, she couldn't even zip up the damned thing (nevermind the fact that the dress was rather cruel to her breasts, which seemed to want nothing more than to break free), but she stood in front of the mirror, inspecting herself with such overwhelming satisfaction that she covered the room in a fine film of awe.

"I think I am going to get it."

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

She didn't, of course. It was merely a bitchy mind trick to make me believe that she looked so amazingly superbly fantastic in this garment and I, so shit and root vegetable-like, that I should create a frilly shrine to her beauty and poise.

Love,
Munky

P.S. I know that didn't fit with my usual style. But don't worry - the misanthropic vitriol is still there!