American Apparel, Training Tomorrow's Strippers Today
I like me a good hyperbole. That may be an understatement, which is hyperbole's less sexy cousin with the red hair and the weird-shaped nose. I like me a good understatement as well. Take for granted that the following statement is neither hyperbole nor understatement:
Unless you have negative boobage, American Apparel swimsuits are not for you.
Good gracious me, I felt like a grandmother as this chick in a shiny, red, American Apparel bikini strutted onto the beach today. How did I know it was American Apparel? Who else makes kitsch, pleather-y, shiny, lycra... shit? Who? No one, I tell you. Anyway, to my new friend in the 'kini that didn't cover anything but the nipplage: Honey pie, there is no WAY you were old enough to be smoking, and it's not allowed on the beach anyway. And I can see your asscrack. So not cool.
Ode to a Surfer
You are beautiful. No joke. I would have talked to you allllllll day if you had let me, or wanted to. But I could see you wanted to get out in the water. And you were completely, totally, one hundred percent wrong about the flags-- I had them up in the correct order. But for you, that order could be compromised upon. Come back to my tower, I will get the shovel, and we can negotiate over coffee or lunch, or maybe dinner, about what order the flags should be in. And then we can share the shovel. We could have had something (like DINNER). So come back! You can awkwardly shake shaggy blond hair into your eyes as we re-dig the holes for the flags. I'm not asking for anything serious! I get to look at you, and you get to just... exist. Simple, huh?
Instead, the Other Girl (tm) and I watched you walk away, giggling and staring.
As my old roommate would say-- "my life! Oh, my life!"
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