I've come to the conclusion that I am tired of tickling balls for nothing but debt. I'm no knock-out, but I have huge tits that can defy gravity with the right amount of sturdy, underwired encouragement, and that has to count for something.
So I've decided to whore myself in a constant, persistent, hopefully non-homicide-inducing fashion to the idea of Jethro's Practice.
We can bitch and moan all day about his boss and her inconsistencies, tirades, baffling business decisions and utter lack of fashion sense (three words: Pleated, Tapered Pants. Belted far above the waist. And when I laid that line on someone, Jethro muttered, "That's nothing. You should see her Pleated, Tapered Jeans). But when it comes right down to it, it's her business, and she can call all the shots. If she wants to alienate her employees, inconvenience her patients, soak Jethro for as much work for as little money as possible, and dress as if she drives a Delorian [updated link]; it's her incontrovertible right, and I will not dispute that.
As we say in blogworld, "If you don't like it, start your own."
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So everything else is going well. I am in a very upbeat, positive place. I think I might be on the cheerful side of a manically depressive mood swing. Or maybe I'm just feeling better from my kidney infection.
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