#189 Sugar and Spice
When I was a boy, the descriptions of little girls as made of sugar and spice seemed so true. But, lo and behold, they grew and transformed from sugar to salt and from spice to spite.
Their lovely baby giggles turned to voices of shrews that cut as deep as any knife. It shows that they forget their mother’s sacrifices and think only of themselves. A reverse metamorphosis has turned these flittering butterflies into caterpillars with more faults than legs.
I saw them change from sweet giggling girls to acidic women spewing cutting words that would put any man to shame. It’s no wonder I drink all night long. I’ve got nothing to lose because all I’ve got is the blues. Everything I do is wrong and will never be right.
I’m always in the mood for the blues, and when a woman sings them, I intently listen. It makes me feel good to know some of them can feel too. Most women I’ve met have turned so damn cold they make my refrigerator seem warm. Icebergs are what I see when I walk down Michigan Avenue, and they’re wearing furs that’ll never warm the ice in their cold, cold eyes that look at me with disgust because I’m a man. A man without the means to buy them some ice – the kind that’ll never melt when they string those diamonds around their frozen necks.
If a woman like that blows into my ear, she would chill my very soul and cause body parts to shrivel from her Arctic breath. Is it any wonder I’ve never loved? If I did, would the woman of my choice ever have her temperature rise and maybe melt her cold heart or her chilly thoughts?
When I dream of being in love, it’s in a warm and sunny place where the women have never seen ice and don’t even know how to be cold. So I think global warming is a good thing. Soon all those frigid hearts will have to melt and when any woman looks at me she’ll see me for what I am, a misogamist in search of an unattainable dream, because woman are made of spite and ice, not sugar and spice.