17 December, 2004

Supermodel? No.

...cat moves/ That so upset them/ Zippers and buttons/ Fun to frustrate them....

In my quest for the perfect 'fabulously interesting page,' I hesitate to post something substandard, unworthy to bump ~this post~ into the archives. I resign myself to not finding it, resolve to break through my uninspired perfectionism.

Warm honey sifts through my hair, cups my cheek. Nestling into sweetness, I am tempted to remove my top. This September-golden sun teases me today, as it crippled me last night.

Fairness would require that I be incapacitated only by impending ominous weather, but there is little in the universe that understands 'fair' as humans have defined it.


I watch Victoria's Secret commercials that give the cachet of diamonds to women's lingere. Somewhat easier on the wallet. Possibly.

"Look at that, they're targeting the male buyer!'

"What? They've been doing that for two or three years now. Ever since the VS show during SuperBowl, they've had supermodels making legs and cleavage at us poor unsuspecting Mr. Sofaholics, with their wet lips and doe eyes, promising us that our women will look like them in that overpriced underwear, which they don't. Where've YOU been?"

Bristle, bristle. I KNOW I don't have supermodel legs. My ass, however, is world-class.

"Not paying attention to male-targeted advertising, I guess. Anyway, I've changed my mind. Now I DO want diamonds."


(I Know What Boys Like; The Waitresses)

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