In the past I've detailed my girlish achievements of the prior three months in a bulleted list. However this quarter, dear reader, I must ask you to take a journey with me to the center of my mind. Don't worry, I promise it won't take long to get there. First you have to trot past all the noise of everyday living, all the phone calls and alarm clocks and half-baked opening lines of articles. Drift by the almost-forgotten conversations from last weekend and the small framed photographs of family and friends. Go all the way to back until you reach my subconscious, a squishy place where Ray Davies croons my insecurities to the tune of “Lola” and Steve Yzerman skates a perpetual victory lap with Lord Stanley's Cup. Back in the corner there, you'll find a terrified girlie girl looking for a way out.

She has been awakened by ten months of painting and pulling and primping and purfumerating. She's thinking, “where am I, and why does everything smell like feet?” She sees you looking at her and realizes this could be her chance to get out. But when she opens her mouth to call for your help, she can't summon her own voice. She's like Danny from The Shining, only instead of a little boy called Tony living in her throat, there's a very small accountant. And that accountant is croaking, “$75 for a full leg and bikini wax? Are you on crack? Any by the way, that tube top makes your chest look droopy.” Ray Davies, meanwhile, pauses to take notes.

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