Althea stank.
Barbara clung.
Calista went to Indiana.
Deliah bashed my skull with a frying pan, wasting my bacon. Temples heal, but you don’t waste good bacon, baby doll.
Eustice faded away. By the end I could literally see through her.
Faye strayed.
Glenda was more woman than I could handle.
Helen was less woman than I cared to handle.
Irene … did I leave Irene at the mall? Shit.
Jill quit the pill.
Katrina wouldn’t touch my WEINAHHHHH!.
Linda said “TALK to the hand!” constantly, emphasizing TALK, which didn’t make sense. (Like I’d been planning to DANCE to the hand?!?!)
Mandy had impractical kinks. (How was I to secure a cement mixer?!).
Nadine was mean.
Olivia was 50 years my senior, and unable to hop pogo-stick properly.
Prue had huge, ugly Hobbit feet–with chafed, protuberant, angled, knuckly, hairy toes. And she showed the monsters off by wearing flat, sweat-stained, Peppermint Patty Birkenstocks with nasty, rusty buckles. It was nauseatingly erotic and eroding my sexual self-image. I couldn’t get through a movie without unfastening my pants.
Quelle was French and disdained me.
Riona, while romantically boiling, was intellectually tepid. And that’s me being generous.
Sasha found me imbecilic and trifling.
Teresa was too rough, which I was surprised to find was even possible with me. EASY, Teresa!, I’d plead, futilely.
Una wore shapeless smocks, shamefully hiding her fine, sinewy figure.
Vera feared intimacy, though I offered none.
Wanda wandered, plus she slurped her straws LOUD as her ice melted.
Xandra spelled her name pretentiously.
Yolanda moved west, cutting down my wind chimes and breaking my heart.
Zooey was above my station, though my coarse, rutting animalism temporarily intrigued her.
