Life is a paradox. You won't find anyone who thinks more about what other people think than yours truly, the sarcastic bitcher. Mom has been telling me all my life not to care, while modeling not caring about others at all, which backfired in that Butterbaby cares more than necessary. Dr. S. continues in this fine tradition, but I will always compare myself to better moms, skinnier/prettier girls, more accomplished writers, faster thinkers, more kittenish kittens. You know who you are my delicious friends. But for the most part, 99 percent part, I leave my friends out of these comparison studies. I, important me, compare myself to perfect strangers. Not perfect as in perfect 10s. There aren't that many to begin with, mostly 7s and 5s, but perfect as in I don't feckin know them and why the f do I care what they think of my fat ass or why I’m crying behind my sunglasses on a sunny day or why I wear strappy heels with sweats. People are a judgmental lot though, so maybe that's why I worry. I mean, I'm given the road rage finger a lot. That should tell you something. But hey, at least I’m being noticed. Even if it's just my senior citizen driving style when M's in the back. Oh, ramble on, you crazy diamond. Thanks, Pink Floyd, for giving me the freedom not to make sense. Yummy Syd.
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