Tomorrow is my first Valentine’s Day in years and years that I haven’t celebrated with someone (or at least had someone in my life). They haven’t all been good but they’ve been filled with more action than what I’m about to do tomorrow which, I suspect, will include something to the effect of sitting on a corner somewhere drinking some sort of malt beverage from a paper bag and making fun of the happy people.
My sister made it safely home from her 9-day stint staying with me having had and recovering from surgery. I was surprised we didn’t manage to kill each other; we did have a few close calls, but nothing to write home about (or write on this blog about). I pilfered about as much money from her wallet as I could and she even got me my first round of Botox injections EVAR as a thank you. This is very exciting (read: weird). I have yet to use them but I will make sure that I post about it if anything funky happens, like say, I contract botulism or turn into Joan Rivers.
I’m as big of a proponent of plastic surgery as anyone but I’m on the fence with this whole injecting plastic into my face thing. I’m turning 30 in October and I do want to stave off any signs of aging (and hire someone to make me a fake ID and alter my birth certificate to say I’m 25), but this is a slippery slope. If, say, I do this, and I like the results, what’s to stop me from taking it one step further? You see this happen to celebrities all of the time. They might dabble in a little chemical peel here, or a rejuvenating light therapy session there, but then they end up on the cover of US Weekly looking like they got fish-hooked coming down Rodeo Drive and are racing to the ER.
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