Sustained Criticism

Though I am occasionally told it seems the contrary, I have never really felt sexy or beautiful. But, and here comes the mind-numbing confession, I am remedying that. Finding I can dress tolerably well, understanding make-up and, in short, growing up, has worked wonders. I even toy with poor, helpless guys, these days. Goodness knows, I even flirted quite senslessly with the guitarist of Nightwish last night, played a very fun game of stolen glances with a rather pretty guy in the queue, and had a man of twenty-something stand staring at my retreating back when I sashayed off on sky-high heels last week (how do I know? I couldn't help glancing back).

I have, lately, been the undeniably best-dressed of two, no, three, parties (at which all the attendants have had decades in which they should have developed enough dress-sense to beat me). And have been told so. An acquintance has also taken to complimenting my choice of shoes, and I really can do nothing but appreciate that, can I?

It helps, I suppose, that I do not look like road-kill naturally, but, by gods, does flirting and covetting looks improve lacking self-esteem.

Oh, and on a side note, I think I shall drag either Katrine or Kristine, or both, with me to Christmas Gotham. It is time we scourged the underworld of Oslo together.