The old estrogen pit at OJ world headquarters is looking more like a dried up prune pit these days.
Vats of progesterone cream keep being delivered for the remaining dinkette to slather on in hope of staving off the inevitable. It's an act of desperation as Gargantua turns 60 today.
The wailing is a bit disturbing and other tenants are complaining so I came down to the Starbucks to work.
As I see it dahrlings, when you've been rather exquisite all your life and the lustre begins to fade, that is something to mourn. That is unfair. That is life's cruelty pointing a bony finger at you and saying you are passé. Benched. Best before. Well pffft to that. I'll decide when and what I've passed. As god is my witness, Pumpkins! As long as there is silicone left in the valley, implants, tucks and chemical peels, I will survive!
She, on the other hand, was born wilted. A large disco diva manqué in big shoes. So what's a little aging tossed into this faux pas mashup? And who knows, maybe she's a rare species which blossoms after 60. One lives in hope, dahrlings. One lives in hope.