It seems everywhere I look there's sex and fucking and love and lust and passion.
Gendered roles and pornography. Pink thongs, lace bedecked, flowered satin Girl. Did I mention expertly waxed bikini lines? Airbrushed nipples? French manicure?
Did I mention the new Victoria's secret catalogue that appeared in my mailbox, my roommate's name on the address label? Did I mention I'm bitter?
Yes things are pretty cold and lonely up here. The last bastion of intellectual snobbery. Where pink isn't the new black, black is the new black. Where the revelation that pink is the color of flirting elicits snickering.
Curiosity piqued at the thought of colored verbs, I wonder is the color "get the fuck out of my sight fuckface and go fuck a goat for all I give a fuck" that unusual chartreuse of a week old bruise? If not that then Spilled-guts crimson, bruise mauve, skinned knee rose?
It's very unfortunate for me, eating my apple sauce and flipping through pages of perfect tans wearing underwear that I haven't the patience to let ride up my ass crack. Turns out that tiny section of male I had been hoping to appeal to, well apparently they want a girl in jeans about as much as girls want a sensitive guy.
What the girls mean is they want a guy who has been introduced to the wonderful world of personal hygiene.
What the guys mean is they want a Victoria's Secret model in their jeans.
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