Kung hei fat choi

It has even been estimated that one in 10 Europeans are conceived in an Ikea bed.

I have never been so intimate with vaseline in my life. I have petroleum jelly in bad places. There are little greasy sensations, visceral muggings, that distract me in unusual ways in spite of two scathing hot showers. I have vaseline trapped under my arms. Do not, boys and girls, put vaseline under your arms. I wanted to protect my fur. I protected it. I only lost one hair. It may not have been worth it. A severe coating of petroleum jelly is an experience. Not terribly a pleasant one, though not precisely unpleasant either. More of a slimy null feeling until you realize that it does not wash out of hair. Then there’s sort of panic semi-exasperation.

It felt strangely normal to be naked on a strangers living-room, like this is the nudity I’m used to. The nudity which doesn’t matter, that’s simply being naked because it’s needful and no one pays attention. We started late. Matthew had come over appropriately early, but promptly snuggled into the warm bed with me and we slept in. My bed is a trap. A comfy trap. The Monty Python Spanish Inquisition could have used my bed. Eventually I stood against a plastic sheet covered board propped against a fireplace after Matthew helped me slather on the jelly to the tune of too many australian tainted Austin Power style “oh BAYBEE!”‘s. My left arm crooked on the edge and the other resting on the top of my thigh, I had to stay still for an hour. My hands fell asleep and my sensitive joints wanted to give out, but I persevered. I refuse, at this point, to bow to certain of my injuries.

The casting went well. It peeled off perfectly and set against my skin to the grain. I hadn’t moved a tenth of an inch in spite of the odd position. We’re going to do another one soon, after he fills out the negative into a positive and sees what it looks like. He’s uncertain if he made the right decision on the placement of one of the hands. I got fifty bucks and a seriously tacky t-shirt. I was first given a rather tasteful light blue one with a Pacific Lifecasting logo neatly printed on it, but I declared I was going to go home and write if you like what you see, get a copy of it at (phonenumber) across the chest in permanent black marker. He said that I obviously needed to see the old logo. He was right. I traded mine in.
t-shirt pictures – it doesn’t get much classier than this

paid to lay on a table – I even get a t-shirt

Tomorrow I get up at the tightest crack of dawn to travel half across the city for the dubious honour of being smeared in vaseline and home repair goop. His idea is to pose me in such a way that he may construct a facsimile of my form entwined with another of myself. Should be delightful. My favourite quote from the website advises me to bring my own music, otherwise, he is told, listening to his choices are the most painful aspect of the proceedings. Thanks be to T.V. On the Radio. My only worry is that I’m pretty certain I’m going to lose some curly hair.

reminder to self: no underwear tomorrow. underwear = pantylines, but bring some in a bag.

It’s three a.m. I should sleep now. Enough waiting up for Matthew. My sympathy chocolate is all gone.

Wait, damn – this makes me a model.

*fist to sky etc*