What's the point in being beautiful? I mean it's not far from being an extremely sweet raspberry cream-tart. Everybody wants you, of course, of course, they want you, but apparently there are two types of human-being in front of some delicious dainty. There is this kind of men, ordinary reasonable men, who will staring at you with lust but never try, because it's meaningless, foolish, childish to gorge on sweeties before your first course, second course and stewed fruit. That's why they choose boisterous, blunt, direct, tenacious women like their mothers, that nurtured that sense of shame, to feel nostalgic while your partner is beating you with a soup ladle.
Nevertheless, they are just afraid of the vision of such a beauty that will kill them instantly with ten plus pounds to the body they've been working out for so long with a bottle or a case of beer every day. You know, it's all about this idea of being married. The ring occurs on your finger, the next - you're fat gross moron with six children around you crying and asking for something stupid and inscrutable, while this everlasting little baby inside you, that every man has, cries out with them.
- No, I want mango ice-cream! I want mango-mango-mango...
- WHAT? What does it actually mean? In my childhood we licked icicles in wintertime and the resin of the pines in other times!
After a while both of them fall on the ground in hysterics. Slow curtain. The end.
Thus, you find yourself sitting on a silver platter and looking extremely bored, probably with the glass of somewhat and something melancholic in the air - I prefer Chopin for that case - and that's the moment fruit flies come in, rubbing their scaly hands, and merry-go-round begins. The last conversation with them ended up with the cream-tart vomiting all the cream out. What a shame. But I do apologise, sir, for your shiny shoes.
