Little one

So how do I sing the peanut butter song I invented?

Well, of course in my little ingénue girl-girly voice, of course!

Okay, look, I am NOT twelve, okay?!?

FINE! pick on the little wee one while she's down! See if I care!

Look, just because I have little girl titties and little girl kitty and little choir girl voice does NOT mean ...

*sigh*

It does have, well, one advantage, and that is, when I'm insane ...

... and when are you not, `phfina?

Oh, so thank you, Ms. Muse!

ANYWAY! ... when I'm insane and actually answer the phone (I so have to get caller ID!) and I say, 'Hello?' in my shy little girly voice that I'm so blessed to have, the telemarketer invariably asks in kind, mothering tones, 'Is your mommy home?'

And I can honestly answer, 'Um, no?'

And that spares us both the next few minutes of torture of her trying to sell me stuff and me trying to say 'no, thank you' politely without hurting her feelings.

(Hey, telemarketers have feelings, too, you know, even when they are reading that infernal script!)

Yes, and more than some of my lovers have had to explain to all, far and wide, that I am not her daughter nor her niece nor her ward, and some of my lovers have delighted, more than inordinately, in allowing that misunderstanding to persist.

It doesn't help me that I ... 'prefer' older women. Is this a phase or a stage? I thought high school girls went through that and then got over it, but ...

HEY! do NOT go there! Yes, thank you, I have graduated high school. I'm actually matriculating, thank you very much.

*sigh*

So, yes, yes, so, anyway, yes, you may entertain your willful childish-fulfillment thoughts when you see me prancing about my flat applying the jam and the peanut butter to what you foreigners (we say 'ferriners') stare in shocked disbelief at ('You call that bread? In our country, you don't poke holes through that half-cooked dough, you know'), singing in my little girl not-at-all-whispy-nor-breathy voice:

"Peanut butter, peanut butter,
I love you, oh, peanut butter,
so rich and creamy, so smooth and nutty.
Peanut butter, peanut butter, oh, I love you, peanut butter."

But don't be surprised when you get a petulant pout from the waif-nymph with big blue eyes.

*blink-blink*

:p

And, no, no pics. I don't need 'bean pole' nor 'stick figure' comments to rub salt in the wounds, thank you.

And the 'oh, you really aren't twelve, are you sure?' don't help either, thank you!