She was the kind of dame you wouldn’t trust to watch your dog for the five minutes it would take you to run into the CVS to get your prescription.
She was a looker, alright—like one of those little Hummel figurines wearing a little petticoat and feeding a goose.
She was hot; the kind of hot that rises off a New York City sidewalk in August and fills your nostrils with the sense that actual rotting garbage has just lodged itself in your sinuses.
She was hot—not like a model hot, but like hot enough that like at a bar on like a
Friday Thursday night you might be like, “Dude I think that girl is hot” and your friend would be like, “I don’t know, brah,” and then you’d go over to her and realize she wasn’t as hot as you thought but still like hot enough not to not talk to.
She was so hot you could fry an egg off her, one on each nipple, so it would look like she had fried eggs for nipples.
She was the kind of
bird cat dolphin who didn’t give a hoot scratch flip.
She had so much electricity that when she walked into a nuclear power plant the lights dimmed for a second and freaked everyone out but then it was like, “Oh, that’s just Cheryl.”
You know the kind of girl—the one who uses the last creamer at the diner and just leaves that little quarter centimeter at the bottom that you can’t even do anything with like she’s doing you a favor—that kind of girl.
She had a face that could melt
a heart of stone a heart of steel white chocolate.
She was the kind of broad you could probably order Thai food with if you were both in the mood for Thai food.