Vanity

Ahhhhhh, look what the cat dragged in.  My protégé, looking like a hod-carrier, as usual.  Never was one to spend time on. . um. . .'herself', if I may so use the term without getting clobbered. Very low maintenance.  NO maintnance is more like it.  Don't believe me, I'll leave it to her to strangle ya with her 12.7 centimetre  (That's 5 inches to ya bleedin' Yanks.) armpit hairs.  Hasn't happened yet to my knowledge, but there's a first time for everythin' perish the thought.  And don't look at me!  I dissed my oxter hairs eons ago.  I was metro before there was metro, OK?????

She's OK by me, really.  No knock-out, but not bad.   Then again, what do I care for what this individual looks like?  All I got seduced by, was  some creative intelligence who can do stuff with rhyme, a word processor, and graphite, huh?  Even she asks, why waste time or resources on appearance?  Seeking to be objectified by worthless mortal flotsam that has proven to be nothing but a liability at worst, or superfluous entertainment at best?  (And people call ME the aloof one?)  That makes sense to me, considering not only her priorities, but mine.

But woe is me, if I took that attitude.  Then again, I shouldn't complain.  Sometimes it's good to be the bitch.  Guess who didn't have to feed the equines tonight?

On the other hand, I can't get away with, 'Not tonight, I have a headache'.  (I don't get headaches, and everybody knows it.)