In an Alternate Universe I am The Baddest

   I am on the cusp of my move back to Montreal so I decided it would be fitting to devote this entry to the art of moving and living in a new place. People always say that moving somewhere where you don't know anyone is like getting a fresh start; its a license to be anyone you want to be: femme fatale, cat lady, or wispy white kid from across the hall- you name it, you are allowed to assume the identity. I don't know a lot of people who actually end up doing this. I never have because I'm super lazy and to assume my desired new identity I would need a lot of hairspray, and some sort of gland shrinking surgery because I sweat like a motherfucker.

   If I were to start anew I would want to be the baddest bitch ever. I would probably need my own bedazzler to so I could encrust everything with studs. I would also need a lot of dark eye makeup and an intense artillery of curling irons of all sizes. I am not a flat badass (wink wink nudge nudge), meaning that flat irons are for Avril Lavigne wannabes. If you've got badass mermaid tresses like myself, you owe it to your mane to give it body and rock it! When did I turn into Stacey London, I don't know, but I do know that I speak the truth.

   If I was not so lazy and was actually going somewhere where people didn't know me I would totally opt for Baddest Bitch. Spandex and Leather are just the tip of the iceberg really. Problem: I am legitimately more excited for my fake identity than my real one.