file under: it’s hard to be a rock star

“How goes your life, Grace?” I hear you ask. “Glamorous as usual?”

Well, internet, let me tell you.

My Halloween costume this year involves 5-inch red stilettos (purely by accident, really—I needed cheap red heels that I could maim and that’s what Target had) which seemed like a great idea when I was standing stationary in Target but a very poor idea once I started trying to walk to the Halloween party on Saturday. Suffice to say, I was half a block out of my front door when I tripped on the crooked Boston sidewalk (it jumped at me I swear) and went ass over teakettle onto the cement.

My helpful neighbors called from their porch, asking if I needed Neosporin. Which was sweet in its way, but I was busy pretending I hadn’t fallen over so I just smiled and waved.

I don't understand why this picture exists, but it seems fitting.

You will be glad to know that I soldiered on even with a skinned knee, a square inch of skin scraped off my ankle (it is now bright bright pink), a twisted ankle, and my dignity shaken. When you’re as fabulous as I am, something like a minor abrasion does not faze you.

And then last night I was trying to re-dye the blue part of my hair and ended up looking like a Smurf, but that is a story for another day.

We rock stars must suffer for our art, truly.


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