Whelp, no baby for Rosemart.

I never did take another pregnancy test, but I'm really, really on my period. I don't see how a baby could lose that much blood and tissue and still live.

Because you all needed to know about my intimate bodily functions.

Also, I'm a big advocate of pooping. GET YOUR FIBRE, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.

I've had a shitastic couple of days, so I'm going to spend the evening watching Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs (which I've seen, but I didn't want to rent anything that required brain power), and burying my head in a giant bowl of popcorn.

Did you know that the singer Rihanna travels with a fluorescent pink tank?

"Tank of what?" you say, as everyone else has.

Not that kind of tank. A 'bang bang shoot the militants' tank.

Yep. At least it's on a wheeled platform. It has a truck almost entirely to itself.

She also travels with a giant Scotsman who kind of resembles Billy Connolly, but taller and bigger, and is in charge of the barricades.

I was on barricade duty.

What does that mean?

After the concert I charged into the people milling about and hoping to catch a glimpse of something exciting, and disassemble the barricade.

It was covered in beer and who knows what else, and was incredibly gross.

Anyway.

I'm just grumpy.

On a lighter note, I booked my ticket out of dodge the other night.

Flying out of here on the 18th. Hooray!

Now, popcorn.

.

Rosie.

Before&After