Deception is a
routine motif that blots the life of every modern woman. Inasmuch as their
illusory acts seem outrightly defensible, a greater proportion of the weaker
sex portrays a character far from human, whose ambivalent effect renders
perverse; the fact that there could be some sensible feminine existences out
there.
Hold your lousy
tongues! Never ask me to act contrite
since that’s synonymous to forcing a stream to flow in a reverse direction. I can
justify.
Let’s begin with
the fashion disguise. Where on God’s good earth was the cleavage cliché first
conceived? Well, cheers for entertaining
the male eye with your superficially garbed teats, undermining God’s purpose
for setting them where they are. Assuming you adopted the character held by
most mammals created with openly-aired mammary glands; and pretending that such
revelation does no harm to the present-day generation (which ain’t even a
distant cousin to the truth); exposure is meant for just a few.
Flaccid breasts,
darker than hair, ever shy, unfairly beaten by stretch marks, graced with a
thumb-sized nipple, pimpled with a texture that points out to facial acne and
above all, exposing a creation whose characteristic loyalty contrasts not so
much with an old pair of sand-filled socks; clearly gives men a night full of petrifying
hallucinations besides denying them appetite.
The flippantly-tailored
wears and blouses plus flashy brassieres were preordained for the hallowed few
who can boast of voluminous breasts. There are only a handful of women who can
break a neck with their carelessly exposed chests. This describes the
rare breed that is almost turning University Way into a black spot, far from
the vending machine attendant in clumsy River Road mini-streets dancing to
bendover in maladroit corners to entice male ice-cream buyers (whom I barely
recognize as men especially now that the trouser has grown into something
unisex).
I wonder what
language your dressing mirror speaks (but this does not mean that I have
overlooked the miniature mirror at the back of a twenty-shillings comb that I’m
used to). Review your nefarious behavior pattern by working on the awful image
that stares right into your eyes from the dressing mirror before someone
near-male can call you a lady.
And for the rare
breed, heed to this brotherly counsel. Your scanty upper-body dress only
portrays you as an underprivileged deceiver struggling for dominance and
attention in a world where men have grander goals to chase. Rather than calling
men dogs and nonsensically sermonizing the irrational credence that all men are
the same, sit back and rethink this single yet mild form of deception that has
ruined the lives of countless men. The masculine world is totally visual,
whether in human or any class that belongs to the kingdom animalia.
I feel lethargic.
This is sufficient to handle the few haters that I have presumably created. But
wait; before you detach the mandibles, review your blouse’s top-line. If it
decently covers what it ought to, then be free to bring your uninformed attacks
head-on. I have greater specifics to discredit the present-day feminine unit.
