No, I’ll not have a bad day, on your account.
I’ll just say I’m having a minor beauty crisis,
this is L.A.… after all, and it really could be that simple;
nothing more than an eensy-beensy, little,
itty-bitty beauty crisis: a broken nail, or bitten down
to the nubs by the side of the phone, if you will.
I’ll just go get a French Tip Manicure.
I’ll get me two French Tips, if I so desire.
I’ll do the Pedicure too because somehow I know what’s coming
but I’ll pretend that I’m doing this for you.
I’ll get the Pedi and the Tips down on the Winward Circle
and I’ll have me a Double Mocha Java Ice Blended Frappe
with the Whip Cream on the top. And then I will surely…
hmmm… surely stop thinking about you,
with your eyes set so deep that I never picked out their color
and your accent so sweet that I never listened to the
sirens along the speedway of our "love." I mean,
once you pass that first curve after the on ramp,
the steady acceleration can interfere with proper incubation
so that the exit ramp can cause extreme aggitation…
but not with you.
You put on your brakes coming right out of the gate, and I
have to say that I appreciate the way you engaged,
like a fish to bait, but with such charm and grace, and oh darn…
I guess this means the trip to the south of France is off?
But, oh, there we go! Finis!
See how good my nails look today, down on Venice Beach?