the penultimate reason i love my beautician. in a mate's way. or not.

last friday i was having a post-wax cigarette with my beautician (aka "the goddess of wax"). we were hugging a lot and crying together and declaring our mutual love and adoration for each other.

i swear, if i could find a man who treated me as good as this hot hungarian mama does, i would be a satisfied and happy woman.

i mean c'mon ladies, she touches my vadge, tells me she loves me, cuddles me, then gives me chocolate and cigarettes. and ain't no man ever done that for me consistently for two years running. actually, ain't no man ever done that for me for two days running.

*sigh*

anyway, on friday she sat me down and told me that she would be my surrogate mummy when "the badness" happens. this made me cry. a lot.

HOW SWEET IS THAT?!?

but in considering her most beautiful and jizz-inducing offer, i am wondering whether i really want a mother who:


- touches my vadge

- ogles my baps

- texts me when she gets lucky

- gets lucky WAY more often than i do

- offers to share her sexual partners with me


i'm not from queensland after all. (nb: for all you foreign readers, queensland is an aussie state often accused of being full of racist bogans and family fuckers. for further proof, go here.)

so i think i'll stick to paying her to rip the hair out of my folicles and joining her for coffee and cigarettes every now and then.

at least she doesn't ask me what i reckon about shapelle corby while i'm "assuming the position" on her day bed. so wrong.

as you were.