Being Gorgeous

Wearing her self-satisfaction and golden locks, her “Goldielocks”, as an exoskeleton, there is no way, I will ever get through to her. I’ve tried telling her a thousand times that the salary of the employees cannot keep them fed, but

“Salary, schmalery,” she says, and “every one of them agreed to work for me under these conditions.”

“And every one of them had their face buried in that ample bosom of yours when they agreed,” I’d like to say, but she always says it with that special glint in her eyes which makes my thoughts fat and lazy, and she has that smile that sticks to my brain like syrup and I just nod, and maybe gurgle, I always have trouble remembering, and when my senses return, she’s off petting some poor employee’s head, and he looks happy of course, but his hollow cheeks remind me that no amount of petting will feed him.

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