I’m not going to say that Vanity is my middle name. I don’t need to – that’s why I have you – but I will admit to being slightly attractive in a former life.
Let’s face it, nobody wants to think of themselves as repulsive. You want to be found attractive by beautiful people… or, barring that, at least someone reasonably ungrotesque…
Now, I have loved plenty of women in my life and, in some cases, I’ve been paid to act like I loved them. Many of them were attractive. Some of them still are. Some always will be. And I pride myself in having kept some very nice company.
All this is my way of building up to the unpleasant occasion that happened last night, when a half-crazed, other half senile, witch of an old woman, dressed in her robe, standing in the Ralphs parking lot, instructing a cab driver to load her groceries – a great mound of groceries – while holding a stuffed animal and smoking lecherously from a cigarette, the kind of woman you couldn't locate in a rubbish tip, looked over at Vicky and I walking out of the store and spoke clearly and resoundingly, leaving a thick glop of ickyness, “You’re kinda cute.”
What that woman finds you cute, it’s time to pack it in. It’s time to peel all the skin from your body, because it’s all gone to waste.
“So, you’re telling me that this,” you ask, pointing in your general direction, “is only appealing to someone of that nature? You’re saying that if I were to take myself out on the town, I’d pretty much be open to something along those lines?”
But Vicky, always there to make me feel better, said, “You never know. She could have been talking to me.”
I’m still wondering which is worse…