(este cuento en español)
Hanging out with this boy-beastie and his luscious mouth wasn't such a bad idea after all, I think just before he regales me with the following stunningly profound insight: If you had your tits done you'd be seriously hot. Squashing him to the point of no return would be such child's play that noblesse oblige prevents me from reciprocating, because while I'm not required to penetrate anyone with my breasts, fake or otherwise, certain male bodily defects are not to be remedied and, as Magali said: Tell a guy that to his face and he'll throw himself under the first moving bus.
Filled with wonder at this further secretion from that apparently ubiquitous entity I've dubbed the male psychobabble, I find myself echoing comrade vlada's immortal call: what is to be done? I contemplate adding a gag to my night-crawling kit, but instantly discard the notion because after lipstick gloss ciggies digicam cell cash keys there's not one cubic millimeter to spare in my perfect-for-clubbing purse and let's face it, no other purse will do. Next option, becoming a lesbian: god knows I've tried. Fucking guys with no tongue: too creepy. Forgetting sex altogether: yeah, right.
I'm grooving to this track that goes chicks with no tits/on the dance floor/are the best/the skinniest, sluttiest/sweetest, baddest by my new favorite band forever of the moment and wishing I was gay so I could be mariana eva's girlfriend, when a delectable creature swims into my gravitational zone. He's smooth, he's bold, he's glamorous, he is no doubt the greatest dancer on the floor and possibly the world...before too long I'm pretty sure he's irresistible, what am I saying, indispensable. And as usual god has the last laugh, because not only does he turn out to be everything a girl like me could want: not a single retarded word crosses his perfect lips. OK now I really am in trouble.
PS. thanks queen mary for your genius present...I'm gonna say it like erykah: girlontape is always comin for real/an you know the deal.