How perfect do I have to be, Assholes?

It has come to my attention that I am being overlooked for no good reason -except that I speak out of context. I’ve had it with you charlatans. Sure this photo is 20 years old, but I will not be intimidated by your unwarranted envy. A few injections of Botox and a box of hair dye, and Voila! I’m back, so don’t count me out yet. Paul Geremia, the infamous blues musician, wrote a song about me on his “Devil something” album called “Same Old Wagon” but listen, Paul, it’s everyone else refusing to lay their wagon down, not me. Heavy with cocktail chatter and silk scarf techniques, always the jewelry or convertible, the child at Yale, the lover in Rio, the thick name droppings on the floor.  Their eyes are usually too close together, like a Fox dressed in finery. Self esteem stems from a homemade apple tart, one-act play treatise, fund-raising chairmanship. They sniff out the real and deflate it. There are lessons my mother never taught me that cannot be obtained from self-help books. The real “Secret” is how they accomplish it. How low is the bar?

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