“She wears her dress to the T…like the letter.”
I begin today with a quote from “Weezy.” It is because he is so often capable of saying things in a way which I myself could never attempt. He is such an articulate bastard. For the avid Dragon Tales fan -- I am referring to the rapper Lil’ Wayne -- not the Dragon Tales character (Thank you twin sisters for making this apparent). I am sat in the UMC, or the glamorized cafeteria, of my university, watching an incoming freshman argue the fall’s monthly budget requirements with two matching periwinkle polos who I presumeto be her parents.
What ever happened to Periwinkle? Did Crayola evict if from the box?
I had to change the track. I lent my ears for the sake of humor, but I can only stand horrendous grammar for short blocks of time. To preserve my intelligence level I revived my vocabulary with a plethora of new words; words to satiate my Weezy induced hunger. Erykah Badu is now wafting through my headphones. I have blocked out my surroundings, the students with science majors sure to bring them more success than mine, and the conversations of liberal politics I know not of. Ms. Badu was my first girl-crush -- and a first love never flies far from the coop.
“And if you don’t want to get down with me then you don’t want to pick from my apple tree.”
I still sleep in hostile territory, and fold my hands in prayer each night that I will find a man with whom I can make my own home. It has been a week since my last marriage proposal. I feel I have fallen on hard times with no new prospects. Today, with no men worthy of a proposal and a rockstar boyfriend out of my grasp, I have decided on an evening drive to my local strip club.
Local: a location two exits south on the highway, three stoplights, and a left turn.
I want to sit on a stool, twirl the straw in my soda, and breathe in the sex, taste the money, and maybe even touch the bottom of society. I will however, assert my right to slap any middle-aged man who dares to step within the white chalk circle I have drawn seeking the attention of a clothed female. I have been practicing my response in the event I am confronted by such a specimen.
Man: Well hello there little lady.
Marissa: (with a wave of my hand and an air of arrogance)
Go home to your wife, your wrinkles, and chest hair is frightening me.
Man: (said with disgust) How dare you?
Marissa: (slides a pack of Viagra and blows a kiss) Take care sweetheart.
I have been reminded that my post lengths are often excessive, and that I may, or may not, be making a few certain fellow future Olivia Riley’s look bad.
I will end with three questions of great importance:
1. Why is everyone an aspiring writer? I loathe competition.
2. Does Subway contain nicotine?
3. Are back muscles sexy?
What ever happened to Periwinkle? Did Crayola evict if from the box?
I had to change the track. I lent my ears for the sake of humor, but I can only stand horrendous grammar for short blocks of time. To preserve my intelligence level I revived my vocabulary with a plethora of new words; words to satiate my Weezy induced hunger. Erykah Badu is now wafting through my headphones. I have blocked out my surroundings, the students with science majors sure to bring them more success than mine, and the conversations of liberal politics I know not of. Ms. Badu was my first girl-crush -- and a first love never flies far from the coop.
“And if you don’t want to get down with me then you don’t want to pick from my apple tree.”
I still sleep in hostile territory, and fold my hands in prayer each night that I will find a man with whom I can make my own home. It has been a week since my last marriage proposal. I feel I have fallen on hard times with no new prospects. Today, with no men worthy of a proposal and a rockstar boyfriend out of my grasp, I have decided on an evening drive to my local strip club.
Local: a location two exits south on the highway, three stoplights, and a left turn.
I want to sit on a stool, twirl the straw in my soda, and breathe in the sex, taste the money, and maybe even touch the bottom of society. I will however, assert my right to slap any middle-aged man who dares to step within the white chalk circle I have drawn seeking the attention of a clothed female. I have been practicing my response in the event I am confronted by such a specimen.
Man: Well hello there little lady.
Marissa: (with a wave of my hand and an air of arrogance)
Go home to your wife, your wrinkles, and chest hair is frightening me.
Man: (said with disgust) How dare you?
Marissa: (slides a pack of Viagra and blows a kiss) Take care sweetheart.
I have been reminded that my post lengths are often excessive, and that I may, or may not, be making a few certain fellow future Olivia Riley’s look bad.
I will end with three questions of great importance:
1. Why is everyone an aspiring writer? I loathe competition.
2. Does Subway contain nicotine?
3. Are back muscles sexy?
I am not an aspiring writer. I am a Maxim Hometown Hottie.
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