My Houseband is determined to come to Montreal to complete his TOEFL exam. I'll be expected to give him shelter, natch. "Aren't there other openings?" I asked. "What's the hurry?" I plead passive aggressively for him to find alternative days, but to no avail. He won't budge; he must come and see me. Damn his unrelenting desperation! It's more lethal than a fat girl in heels. Hopefully, I'll be in Honduras with Banana Chic by then. And since Crazy French Guy offered to lend me the keys to his (modestly dingy, but oh-so convenient) apartment in Paris for the summer, Houseband can be further avoided, if not indefinitely.
Speaking of fat girls, I've always thought I had crooked legs because of some weird obesity gene that materializes as a gigantic wad of lard bolted to the sides of my knees, slipped from the glacial heights of my thighs. That's seemingly a dysmorphic illusion because I'm apparently in the same company as 'norexicle Starbucks abusers, as evidenced in Subject A - Kirsten Dunst:
like boning grandma.