I’m looking at my shoulders, and it’s not a pretty sight.

Between getting thrown on the ground several times a night for the past three weeks as a part of my role of hostage to Iranian terrorists (I was acting. Maybe you’ve heard of it), general clumsiness and residual bacne scars, I’ve come to the concise decision that tank-tops are not going to be an option for me this summer. 

I’m poking at each of my wounds and scars right now trying to decide if they give off the air of rugged physicality, or if they’re giving off a more literal “air” of infected flesh. I’m hoping not the latter, because I’m having enough trouble getting a guy to look at me, the last thing I need is the stench of an infected rug burn to start cock-blocking me too. Goodness.

So, as you can tell, Summer is starting off just great for me. Let’s hope I get the call, and California beckons. 

But then again, a summer in Cali with no tank-top privileges just doesn’t sound like that much fun at all…