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I'm about to go to Shithead's birthday party. It's a costume party - you're supposed to go as your inner child.

No, I'm not naked.

No, I'm not painted.

I'm dressed up. Pants, shirt, tie.

Yes, I'm wearing shoes.

It should be interesting. Especially since I go into automatic Manners Mode when wearing these clothes. My back is straight, my hair is as combed as I can get it without a comb, and I'm going to be automatically be polite to people this evening. I can't help it.

My socks are white and my shoes are the scruffy ugly ass brown ones with mismatched shoelaces I wear daily.

Yesterday, I had a test in World Lit. It had a creative writing component. Because we were reading "The Conference of the Birds" (Islamic Canterbury Tales is a good way to describe it), we were to describe what bird we were, what our excuse was to not go on this demanding journey, and what the leader bird's response was.

I was a kitten.

Slainte!

John-Boy