Friday is my 20th High School Reunion...I'm pretty sure I'm going. I bought two tickets, and reserved a swank hotel room. OK, so not swank, but it's got a fridge, a king size bed, and is a corner room--worth every penny of the extra Twenty Bucks!
So anyway, though I've not been agonizing over this--seeing as I've not yet decided for sure that we're going, and all--I am considering it seriously. In anticipation of my possible attendance, however, this past weekend I decided to try out a couple of 'casual' hair-do's for the big night.
And, in an irony that could only have been borne of a history of lame teenage excuses, the following actually did occur:
I burned my neck with the curling iron.
No, really, Dad. I did.
I swear.
Pinkie Swear.
He is NOT a loser. He's not.
He's cute.
and, and...He likes me...
I swear it was the curling iron, Dad.
It was.
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