Dear Diary:
I don’t really have much to say to you today. It seems I’m full of questions. I sit here in my window watching the construction men and I don’t understand why none of them have asked for my hand in marriage yet. These fifteen minutes feel like an eternity. It’s just me, vulnerable and coyly eager, sitting here, face painted for the gods, wearing nothing but a blue chiffon house dress and my pink princess slippers. I’m so exhausted trying to drink this bloody mary seductively through a straw. Lots of lip work and hair tossing involved. I may need a nap.
Do they think about me when they go home to their unadorned wives? When they sit at the dinner table eating hamburger helper and closeted beer, I am sure they look up at their wives and think: “I wish I could be eating with that beautiful woman I saw in the window with the binoculars. We would eat by candlelight and stare deeply into each others’ eyes. I could ask her why she eats so many of those bananas in front of us.” That happens to me all the time. People find everything I do so enticing.
Do they have a nickname for me? When they are eating their sloppy hoe’s sandwiches at lunchtime, do they say, “Look there’s Milk Chocolate Rapunzel in the window again. Why is such a classy woman pressing her boobs against the window like that? She must be very popular or probably famous.” Yes, I get that a lot. Maybe I’m too intimidating…
Maybe I should wear underwear more often. But if I did that, how would my womanly scent enrapture them if it were not flowing free from my secret garden? I’m not the type to resort to chloroform. Not today. They’re ever so heavy when they sleep. And these nails…
Yours always,
Miss Layla Prada Dada
Too much fun!
i love every word. this is 100% lamar. so joyful to me. i could read on for hours.