Yesterday I was dyeing my hair and I had a thought, that I've been thinking about quite a bit since actually... How much of our lives do we actually fake? In a world where we can fake our hair colour, our eye colour, our height, our weight, our breast size, our cock size, our skin colour, our accent, our beliefs, hell, even our orgasm... how much of us, at the end of the day, is real? What part of us is left behind the primping and pampering and carrying on?

I'm also reading a book which is perhaps entirely focused around lies, and their actions and their consequences - The Catcher in the Rye. And I'm loving it. But one line in the book has ruined what the protagonist's perceptions were for me "I am the most terrific lier."

I have to run off to work. I'll report in soon with another exciting addition to my online tales. Todays panties - Red boylegs with a pair of lips on the front. Over and out. XX