Tuesday, September 9
Dear Metrosexual Opthamologist:
I heart you in a completely asexual manner.
You are the very essence of Metrosexuality.
I heart your monochromatic wardrobe and your artfully graying blonde spiky hair.
The only time anyone in my office (because we all love you and go see you) has seen you in something other than a black tee shirt or turtleneck, it was a white tee shirt-- your tees are always very expensive and lint free, tucked into your belted slacks.
I picture your life as pristine and sterile as your office, devoid of drama and/or unsightly displays of poor taste.
It is YOUR family I see in all of the picture frames--they are in black and white, too!
You go to witty urbane cocktail parties where no one gets hammered and barfs cocktail weenies into the potted plants, and I am sure you drive a German Car. (Possibly a Mini Cooper if you are sportier than you seem.)
I adore you even when you make my pupils as big as a kid in a velvet painting and send me out into the world with nothing but lame roll up sunglasses to shield me from this bizzarr-o world side of town where the cars are CLEAN and blind me with their freshly waxed shine.
How did you ever end up in Stockton and not San Francisco? Were you wanting to be a sleek fish in a cloudy pond, instead of one of a school of sleek monochromatic metrosexual fish?
Because you are definitley out of water.