Roose Bolton's Sigil on a Pole
I am not making a face. This was actually how traumatized I looked riding the subway last night after my first pole class in Asia.
After exclaiming over my chest size (a.k.a. fatness), the instructors turned me into Roose Bolton's sigil.
For non-Game of Thrones Philistines, that is to say they proceeded to flay every inch of exposed skin on my body.
Afterward, I hobbled to Watson's and used Google translator on my iPhone to ask the pharmacist for alcohol pads.
I'm still limping around with bruised ribs, waiting to make sure no muscles are torn or hairlines fractured. (Parallel structure trumps scientific sensicalness)
My inner thighs are purple up to my groin. And I once again got #skinnybitch pwned by a bunch of willowy instructors.
I officially hate pole. Only clothing-friendly aerial from now on.