First of all, I owe you a picture of my cute new shoes, but it's a bad picture, because Dr. Krog is not the best photographer in the world. It's one of the only things he's *not* good at, mainly because he doesn't care about photography. But that's not what we're here to talk about.
What hump? you ask.
Let me tell you a little secret.
I think I might have a hump.
And not the good kind, like Fergie has.
The kind that's not at all Fergilicious.
Like, one day, I'm going to be one of those little old ladies with a hunchback.
I hate and loathe the hump.
Sometimes I think about having surgery. Having myself dehumped. I wonder if a surgeon could suck it out with a liposuction thingy, or if it's made of something tougher, like gristle.
I think everyone has some little secret point of self-consciousness, whether it's physical or mental. Some tiny chink in the armor of our confidence. And people can make fun of my hairy arms or my sausage fingers or my pathetic baby toenails all they want, so long as no one ever publicly acknowledges the remotest possibility of my having something that could possibly be called a hump, because I would go home and cry and write bad poetry about it.
Anyway, now you know why I will never have short hair.
And why I feel compassion for camels.