GODDAMNIT, I loathe Summer. I need a CHILL BREEZE blowin' across my vagina for me to be a happy and productive person. The searing heat that is currently Los Angeles is STRICTLY OFF TRACK.
What I need right now is for the disembodied piece-of-ass that was Paul Newman, circa 1962, to rise up from the grave, slowly remove the tasteful white shirt he was buried in, and strut around up in through here like there's no tomorrow. Mama needs to take her mind off the fact that her undercarriage currently feels like the surface of the sun -- AND NOT IN A GOOD WAY.
COME TO ME, LOVERBOY.
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