In this mind of mine, the floodgates open when the MP3 goes live as soon as I'm out the door.
The beat-beating-rap-pa-pop-pop-grrrr of the tunes I'd consume - soundtrack for self-involved mutter.
But I walk the walk.
Runway-perfect.
Keeping a steady pace.
Fast but not lightning speed.
'Cuz there's a beat pounding in my head that's making me feel the hot sassy she-male this being seems to be at the moment.
Swinging my hips.
Sleeves rolled up.
Hands in pockets.
Sunglasses donned.
Undeterred in the least by eventual or maybe the ongoing humiliation...
...of having succumbed a number of times to the heart-shaped branding that scars you for life.
You know what I mean.
Yeah. Can't touch this.
