You Wanna Fuck With The Eagles, You Have To Learn To Fly

I've been off-line for a few days, tending to a Very Dear Friend who's been in need of some major Tender Loving Care. I'm still offline and tending, in fact, as you read this, but I found a moment while she was sleeping to get on and pre-schedule this post.

Because, you see, it seems a certain annual occurrence has rolled around again. And I've decided to mention it in a slightly less subtle manner than I have in other years because, well...

Do you remember a few months ago, when I wrote about a pair of too-small breeches I've been hanging onto since I was sixteen years old? Or maybe fifteen? Or possibly fourteen?

Well, if you love me enough to remember that, you may have also noticed an unspoken rule I've quietly followed on this blog since its inception: I don't post pictures of myself here. I really thought I positively never would.

But tomorrow is my birthday.*

I'll be turning 41.

And yesterday I wore those fucking breeches.

So today feels like a day for bending rules.

Ta-da.

Ta-da.

 Ta-da.

Yes, yes, I still have horse-thighs. I've always had them, and they're in my genes so I assume I always will.

And yes-yes, I had to stand on the toilet to take these pictures of myself in the bathroom mirror. Sometimes, when no-one's around, you do what you have to do to take care of yourself.

And yes. Yes. I am in the AssVac. Again. Temporarily.

But you people are not paying attention!

The point is. 

I am wearing.  

The size-six. 

Fucking breeches.

(And yes, I have now said "fuck" gratuitously at least four times in a single post, including one time in the fucking title. So? I might do it a few more times before I'm through, so you just watch it. If you're that sensitive, stand back, and maybe shove some cotton in your ears.)

(Then again, if you're that sensitive, what are you still doing fucking here?)

As an added bonus, though -- and to make up for subjecting you to so many gratuitous fucks in one Very Special day -- here's a lesson I learned just in time for the start of my 42nd year that I am (temporarily, at least) big-hearted enough to share with you. Because I love you. Every single fucking one of you. Really. I'm not just saying that. I don't go saying just anything in public, you know. What do you take me for, some kind of Freak?

Anyway, the lesson I've finally learned after 41 years of existence on this planet is:

It may not make for a very pretty picture, but creamy peanut butter is an excellent addition to a s'more.

Now, anybody out there want a piece of that?

I didn't think so...




*I decided to post this a day early so y'all could see it in time to tell me how fabulous I am (and look) on my Big Day. Because I know you only read this crap as a diversion when you're supposed to be working. And by Monday, I imagine, I will have taken the fucking breeches off.

But maybe not.

I am kind of digging my 41-year-old ass in them, after all...