Chifferobe

So I'm in America's Finest City (San Diego) for Comicon this week.  I went to Preview Night last night and saw a bunch of amazing stuff: stuff I wanted to buy but stuff that would probably end up in a cardboard box somewhere so I didn't give in to my fangirl urges.  I mean, who really needs a Walking Dead zombie action figure anyway?


I can barely watch that show, BTW.  It scares me like crazy, and I live alone, so I'm always thinking there's a zombie lurking in my linen closet.  Don't laugh: it could happen.  Bath salts are turning respectable folks into flesh-craving freaks nationwide.  Don't you read the news?


I'm writing to you from a lovely 5 star hotel.  Okay that's a lie, it's a 2 star hotel, and the bedspread smells kind of... spermy.  Not that I would know that smell first hand, mind you: I'm a princess, and princesses don't know, or write, about such thing. So there you go.


The reason I THINK it smells spermy is because just this morning, while doing yoga, I discovered a Polaroid of a fat guy with a boner under the chifferobe.  The Polaroid was a self portrait, shot by said fat guy, in my hotel room's mirror.  It's horrifying, revolting, and hilarious all at once.  Why is this fat guy so proud of his weiner? Why did he leave the picture behind?  Did he want an innocent yoga-doing girl to find it?  Who uses a Polaroid anymore? When was this thing taken?  Is a bygone boner from the 70's?  It's hard to tell.  Anyway, that's why pretty much everything in this room smells spermy to me.


I'm going to go scrub myself down with a wire brush and head to Comicon Day 1.  More on this later...