Dont cha, Dont cha

Dont cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me

Dont cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me

Dont cha, dont cha

Dont cha wish your girlfriend was raw like me

Dont cha wish your girlfriend was fun like me

Dont cha, dont cha

I realize the sheer exquisiteness of my vogue-ness might be too much for the internets to handle, but do try.

I also apologize for referring to the Pussycat Dolls. I’ll never do it again.

Although my Husband no longer cringes when I wander into the living room decorated as the Demented Twilight Pantomime, I still have heaps of fun trying to frighten small children. Mine in particular. Imagine being snuggled in your bed, warm fleece blanket tucked beneath your dimpled chin, while patiently waiting for the good night kiss from your Mama. Now imagine, instead of the warm familiar face of your mother appearing in the doorway, the pale face of a mysterious person slowly enters the doorway wringing its hands and cackling.

If you were a nine or eleven year old child, wouldn’t you shrink beneath your covers and snivel at the sight of such a terrible monster? I know I would’ve.

Not my coldblooded brave little children. Not even a flinch. I may have caught a slight roll of an eye or heard a sniff of acknowledgement (or it could’ve just been allergies) but as far as scaring the pants off them? Nope. Nuthin’. Nada.

“Mama, what’s all over your face?”
“Why do you look so ugly?”
“Don’t kiss me like that.”
“Don’t touch me.”

Tough crowd.

I glimpsed my face as I passed the hallway mirror and twitched.

At least my pores were clean.