After I got out of work, Phoebe talked me into painting my nails black. She was doing her own and she likes to get me involved in whatever craziness she’s brought our way. Last week, I drove her to her bellydancing group and she handed me a set of zils and dragged me into the fray. So this is commonplace.
What the hell though, right? She tried to talk me into some eyeliner (“guyliner” was the term she used) too, but I convinced her that the polish was more than enough for the moment. It definitely makes my hands look a ton more delicate than they actually are. But hey, is the aristocracy hiring? I could be a baron — I’ve got the hands now.
…and then pics, which I’m NOT a fan about, but she’s in collusion with Orson about this whole self-confidence through exposure thing. So here goes nothing:
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