A few housekeeping matters before we go on to our (temporary) regime change:
– I’m tired, so I shall catch up on answering comments tomorrow. I have things! to! say! Get your reading pants on.
– I have finally figured out that I need an FBA. The eight inch difference between my high bust and mid-bust circumference were not enough of a hint, apparently. This explains the whole “swimming in dresses above the apex” thing. I do not know how to do an FBA, and my high bust measurement puts me in a different Big 4 pattern range, so shit’s about to get interesting. Swearing makes it feel less daunting.
– The lovely Miss Parayim has nominated me for a Liebster. Is there anything I love more than winning? I shall totally do the whole trot out shebang once I figure out what questions to pose besides “How do you reckon I’d look with bangs?” or “Do you know of a great sheer lip color with hypochondriac-level SPF?” Apparently, these are selfish questions. Whatever.
Now, on to the main event. I’d like to think that I run an exceedingly benevolent dictatorship here at Seam Ripped Central. Bread and circuses, death of agency, yada yada yada, let’s see how we’d do with an election. Not a proper one, mind; I’m not the poll-posting sort of jefa. Next week is our blogiversary. (It’s paper!) Instead of making it rain like a rookie rapper in an Atlanta strip club, I’ve decided to perhaps host a giveaway.
Here’s my idea: you enter the giveaway, win it like the badass you are, and I’ll buy and send you a surprise. I’ll sniff around your blog, exchange a few emails with you (especially if you’re the blogless type), and send you something special in the post. Is this a horrible idea? Will one of you sue me over my loosey goosey standards? (I’m a student. The most you’d get is my calculator collection and one of my cats.) I have decent taste, I ship anywhere in the world, and there’s only a thirty percent chance that what I’ll send you is illegal in your country. Dreadful idea? Would you prefer it if I picked out one crazycakes thing? In the immortal words of Diddy, vote or die. (Or just get seriously emotionally maimed. Same difference.)