Possibly the only thing worse than falling through a coffee table and getting splinters and shards of porcelain and crystal in your bum is having a physician cut off your shapewear, then remove the pieces one by one with a pair of tweezers. It’s been thirty minutes, and I swear the man will never finish. I guess it’s true that I don’t do things by halves. Kat watches from a chair in the corner like I’m the evening’s entertainment, eating some kind of crisps she procured from who knows where. If she were a gif, she’d be the one of Michael Jackson throwing popcorn in his mouth, grinning.
