Despite what seems like frequent protestations to the contrary, this blogger really likes women. It is important to clarify this, as my snide comments about mascara dripping handbag-shopping purse-buying shoe obsessed designer clothes collecting big breasted blonde downtown slags may have given my readers the wrong impression.
For which I apologize.
The other day I was waiting for the bus on Union Street. As it took a while, I started counting things. Buses going in the other direction. Taxis. Icky little poo-dogs. Women wearing leotards. Or maybe it was yoga pants.
There were three exercise places in less than a block.
Each issuing forth frightening piranhas.
Altogether, over twenty of those hungry-looking cannibals. During that same time, not a single person entered the nearby Chinese restaurant.
What on earth is WRONG with those people?!?
And why are all of them white?
To quote my ex girlfriend: "you white people are special; none of us Chinese ever get possessed by the devil, we're safe."
I'm not sure she was talking about the exercise nuts, but in any case it applies. Real people go to Chinese restaurants, febrile dingo-bats wear yoga pants and stress out about their spongy bottoms.
Because skin-tight clothing is a way of life.
Stretchy fabric, no pantie lines.
Everything revealed.
Union Street isn't my kind of place. I feel quite out of my element there.
Those people occupy the same planet, but that may be the only thing we have in common.
No partials, nothing in between.
They're precious.
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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