extra long vintage convertible car. notice my big shoe size, do I know what that really means? extra little lies on top of giant whoppers. the number of figures on their W-2, and my measurements and cup-size, please. please treasure their perspicacious needs.
what’s with the obsession with size?
won’t sleep with them on the first date, they are shocked, just shocked, when informed on the dotted line that a hundred dinners won’t turn me into their personal come-when-called *****. at nineteen, by now, I should know better, do as I’m told
what’s this obsession with hurry up, immediate satisfaction?
and patting my head like i’m their favorite pet, mansplaining me how the world works, cause at nineteen I don’t know **** just listen to the know-not-a-**** thing arrogance of knowing it all impress themselves
what’s this need to be superior but a huge (size) coverup?
yeah yeah, get me a better class of men, like my literate professors who will improve my grade for use of the insights of my mouth on their poetic gestures.
I can wait, till I find a right sized human being, in every which way, especially if he shows me the true love poems writ for other girls, then I may even trust him, sooner than never