Springtime

Spring has sprung, the grass is riz ...

That can only mean it's time for me to start my yearly search for clothing that covers my entire body and yet keeps me cool. Easy, right? Why not! Especially since I live in the desert.

You see, I suffer from the worst of the worst case of vicious body image hatred imagineable. And because of this, I assume that everyone is a) looking at me, and b) feels the same way about me that I do.

It's an exhausting and interesting way to live, really. I spend hour upon hour finding just the right top, just the right pair of jeans. No pants shorter than calf-length, no matter HOW hot it gets. No shorts, ever. And shirts: nothing that shows any belly skin, nothing that is remotely see-through; no shirts with sleeves shorter than elbow-length. I will, however, wear shirts that emphasize my cleavage because that's what I consider my only positive point, aside from my feet. Oh, I do love to shop for shoes!

High heels, open toe, brightly coloured shoes! Soft leather, supple leather, patent leather, oh yes! And always with a wonderful pedicure, my one concession to an otherwise failing body: my feet look nice, and I'll aid them in any way I can. Besides, I figure they draw the eye away from my behind, which has burgeoned 30 pounds in 4 months ...

Goddamn seroquel. Goddamn Seroquel and the minions and monkeys who make it. It works, and I hate it. Some day I'll stop taking it and I'll be able to walk into a store and buy a regular, cute junior shirt, off the rack with cap sleeves and say FUCK YOU, Seroquel .... this one's for you.