Angel Face

Glowy. Etheral. Pretty much perfect… Ok, maybe not perfect, per say; But I do have the face of an angel. Oh who are we kidding? I’ve got wings. Never to be one short of confidence, I’m aware, of said condition. Oh geez.That being noted, if Im not smiling, talking or laughing; I look mean, snotty and arrogant. Or, as I’ve been told by my mother, those could be parts of my personality lesser known to the outside world, bless her heart; But hey, we all have demons. Lay off. Nobody is a happy hunky dory, hopscotching all the freaking time. Quite sure even comedians have down time… or hopscotchers. 

Recently, I was accused to darting dirty looks to someone. I wasn’t. He asks if I was sure I wasn’t giving him nasty looks. Uh. I wasn’t. But, I will if you keep it up, sailor. A few moments pass and again, I was told that I was giving looks of smudgery. Again, I wasn’t. Agitatation sequence, commence. Ever stop to think that maybe it’s my chisled bone structure? That it’s possibly just how my freaking face looks? Pissed all the time. In dirty-look mode. Do you know how many broads over the years said to me, “Um, like I totally didn’t wana be friends with you because, um, like, you looked like a bitch. But, like you’re, um, totally, like nice.” 

Here’s what I don’t get… the people close to me, know I’m a sweet delectable. Like sugar cane and candy sprinkles. And for someone to assume I’m darting looks in their general direction is prepostorous.  Hey you! I’m mailing you unclean, filthy looks in your eye space. Take that. I have plenty on my proverbial plate and I am fucking busy. Wait, what? Why is there a pen in my ear? Mind your business and stay focused. Busy, I tell ya. Anyway, it was during this intrusion of my space that I was innocently reading and making notes on a book I’ve been working on. Imagine in real time: Casually looking up and around. Sipping the vino. Put my noggin back down to my pages and so on and so forth. I am not paying attention to the hefty eater to my right. Or the bartender slcheping around the glasses, banging the shit out of them like a bull in a china shop. The valley girl waitress hanging by the side of the bar like she’s got nothing better to do, like, oh my god i dunno… Serve your tables? Wench. 

Bottom line. It’s just my face. It’s angelic. It’s features are delightful. And occasionally, cartoonish. But, it’s mine. And I enjoy my mug, albeit smiling or bitchy in appearance. I can only assume, I will continue to run into this physiognomy until my dying days… Hey, Sophia Loren is keeping it hot. I may be more of the Betty White variety; But, nonetheless… If you can’t stand the heat, back away from my kisser. 

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