I Will Finish The SNAFU Honeymoon Story...

I think a part of me just doesn't want to concede that by telling the last of the story, the entire wedding/honeymoon process is officially over and I have to go back to real life.

For those not in the know or in the loop, please find the previous (horrific by my oh-so-pathetic,  middle-class standards) here:

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

The final installment will be here shortly. I promise. I'll even provide real photos of the Maldives. You know, pre-uprising and presidential dethroning.

The New Husband, dining on a chocolate bar as we waited during the final hours at Heathrow Airport. ROMANTIC!

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DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT...

Drink half a 1.5 Litre bottle of Riesling wine all by yourself while your better half goes and plays Ultimate Frisbee. (Dad, I blame you for the leftover wine. Next time, it goes home with you!!)

Then challenge him to a trash-talking board game, upon his return.

Good things can never come of such events.

Consider yourself warned, and no, you get no photographic evidence.

Though, I may have pissed a few friends off on Facebook.

Sorry 'bout  that.
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The Perfect Outfit

Ever wearing a perfectly comfortable sports bra and pair of  Great Dane drool-covered   knock off Lulu Lemon   likely should have been washed two days ago  yoga pants and think to yourself:

SELF: "You know what self? I feel too... I dunno... free in these pants. I feel as if something is missing."

You ponder this for a moment and then eventually come to the realization that what you are lacking is skin tight razor denim thrashing its own path through your ladybits.

How you missed it all along is beyond me, but facts are facts.

You need some seriously skin tight denim in order to feel complete.

SELF: "But, self, even with that, I feel almost claustraphobic. Like my torso just needs to shout to the world  'Look at me, bitches! Look at me in all my glory! Take me in! Desire me!' You understand, right self?"

So you come up with a solution there.

One that requires fishnet. And not JUST fishnet, but MORE fishnet. (imagine Christopher Walken saying it like "cow bell"...)

BUT,

In order to remain out of prison for indecent exposure, you realize you have to subject your torso to a little boob coverage. Just a little. I mean, those ARE AMPLE breasts you have there, Self.

SELF: "At least I can make that shit RAINBOW."

So you're almost there. Your yoga pants be damned. Your properly fitted sports bra? Well now, those are for  pussies   athletes  people with taste  pansies.

SELF: "I just... I just need something to really stand out. Like REALLY stand out. Some bling or some such flair! Ooooh... twinkle, twinkle, bitches."

And the shoes? Ah f_ck it, I'll just throw on my flip flops.

Do my toes look big in these sandals? (Image via "People of Walmart")

Thaaaaaaaaaaaat's the ticket.

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