Don’t be jealous
One freak has continually eluded my camera. Three times now. I will persevere. Anyway, here is the breakdown of her attire, and I use that term loosely; she looks rather loose.
- Bedraggled and pallid, fake, leopard-fur jacket. The type of fabric one would see on the loincloth of a “native” in a B-movie.
- Shop-worn, straight-leg jeans, so tight you could have hidden a copy of The Economist in her lumpish cameltoe. I must qualify something. Her porcine legs were extremely dense, so the “straight leg” was not so much straight, as it was a polynomial approximation of a Jordan arc.
- Did I mention the ass of the jeans spelled out “Elvis” and “Country”? She’s a whiz with that BeDazzler®, I can assure you.
- Suede fuckme boots. Extra fringe. Extra shitty.
- Cheap, pink lipstick, rouge the exact hue of a Robber Crab, and pumpkin-orange eye shadow, which may in fact be actual smeared pumpkin.
- Approximately two 8oz. cans of Love’s Baby Soft Mist, drained and leaving puddles as she lumbers past.
