Mirror Mirror

I am not the most observant person in the world, as Mrs. BB will attest, but I have become painfully aware of something disturbing about myself this week. It is my vanity you see.

I am vain.

Well, more accurately I am becoming (more) vain. Many of my male friends are very vain though they would never admit to it. I know men who are just as vain as the women they claim are vanity queens.

I have made a point of rejecting this unsavoury behavior, as much as humanly possible, not just because of my contrarian nature, but because its, well, unsavoury behavior for a gentleman.

There is a mirror in the bathroom in the office I am working at. I cannot bear to look at myself. It is a hideous site. The blotches, lines, gouges, blood shot eyes, and then there is the hair… I mean wtf… my hair has always had a mind of its own but every strand is reaching out diagonally in different directions attempting to connect to another hair universe. I think I can see little horns growing atop my head. I am Lucifer incarnate, I am repulsed.

There is mirror just outside of the bathroom in the office I am working at. I cannot take my eyes off myself. Good lords, I am tall, dark and handsome, and looking v dapper and tastily proportioned. My skin is olive tanned, my eyes have a deep penetrating gaze, and my coiffe says ‘hey girls, I am your stud muffin… sex on a stick darling'. Man I look really royally buffed, my blood must be blue. I am a prince, I am getting aroused.

I had a fine bottle of wine at dinner last night with a colleague before polishing off a dirty dozen of wifebeater in a club. I am well hung again and my mind is playing very cruel tricks on me.

Or the gods are trying to tell me something.

Beaverboosh