my most recent "i-get-beaten-by-a-roided-out-boyfriend-every-night" bruises are shaping up quite nicely, thanks for asking. This particular beaut is from having to choke up so far on the big heavy man-bats in softball, I actually hit myself in the left forearm with the knobby end of the stick every time I swing.
What is it like to be a graceful person? Is it a life full of whimsy and ice cream and perfect, unblemished skin? Someone tell me, I am aching (literally) to live vicariously through you. Ballerinas can skip commenting altogether and straight-up email me. I mean, I know yr feet are probably fucked up from years of dancing, but I bet you don't walk into walls.
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