Pretty in Pink

I’m adorable today. You should see me. I’m inside, first of all (obviously), avoiding the beshorted and beflipflopped bebops who stroll mindlessly down Broadway, barely lifting their feet from the sidewalk because they’re either too damned cool or too fucking lazy (or perhaps a delightful blend of both!) to do so. It does, after all, require quite an expenditure of energy.
So anyway, I’m inside, wishing it would rain on people’s pale toes and mat the hair on their bare pasty legs. I’m wishing the temperature would dip, suddenly and without fanfare or reason, back into the 20s, and all of these eager-for-summer beavers would have to scurry for cover inside some cheesy lower Broadway schlock shop in search of parkas and find none, because, after all, it’s March and all they’re “showing” now is stretch capris and brastrap-baring tank tops.
I’m inside, and wearing a pink Old Navy T-shirt. (I’m wearings pants, too, you perverts.) I think it’s called a “little girl” T-shirt. I’m not sure. (Ordinarily I actually buy the real girls’ clothing, because it’s even less expensive [notice I didn’t say “cheaper” and thus imply that Old Navy is a schlock shop!] and they accommodate my desire for a shorter T-shirt length by which I can display my stunningly concave stomach and shorter sleeves by which I can show off my fabulously sculpted arms.) What I am sure about is that it’s just too funny to see me in pink.
But no, you don’t get to see.
And that’s because I’m such a tease.
It goes along with wearing pink.
See how that all works?