Dear Manola 180,
I recently moved to South Beach and would like to know where I can file a lawsuit against life. I thought that I would instantly find a sugar daddy and look like a shine-free, hair-free, sweat-free, completely airbrushed model. I thought that I would prance about happily in my Manolo Blahniks, smelling like rose water and refreshed as if it were the first day of spring in Iceland, smiling like I just had a lobotomy in feels like 100 weather on Lincoln Road, carrying copious shopping bags from Bebe filled with ridiculously costly and barely-there outfits, which I purchased using sugar daddy's credit card, of course.
Oh ... I almost forgot to mention. My life would not only be a feel-good montage from a Flimsy Hohan movie, but also accompanied by the latest top ten hip hop hits!
Instead -- I'll be damned! -- I perspire and stink like a fucking fishmonger no sooner do I step out my door! And Manola, not only do I shine from every pore in my body, I contribute to global warming! And those folds of flesh in my voluptuous body get all irritated and itchy, like I caught a case of crabs just from batting my eyelashes at the Starbuck's barista.
Ugh. Let's not even talk about chronic camel toe, known in the medical community as doublebumpitis. I can't help it. No matter what I wear, there it is: my big fat hairy hot itchy twat just announcing its presence to the world every chance it gets, just like Possum Hilton!
But no way in hell I'm going back to the salon to have some strange bushwhacker pour hot wax all over my pussy just so that my big fat twat doesn't look a bushel of pot tossed over some drug dealer's speedboat! Like those gay guys at the beach really care about a bushy mound of venus! Like an errant strand of hair is going to be a pubic menace!
And -- OMG -- you'd think that all this sweating would eliminate my cellulite, but NO! Why can't those folks at Miami Ink open a new shop: MIAMI AIRBRUSH? It would be so great to walk in and get your ass covered by paint, especially right before Backdoor Bamby parties!
Please tell me what I need to do, Manola! Should I apply for unemployment? What with my low success rate at drink pimping at The Delanus Hotel, I'm practically in skid row, having no other recourse but to seduce the 4 AM crowd at Club Douche, which isn't exactly sportsman-like, not to mention unprofitable, ya know?
Oh! Woe is me! And here's the worst of it -- please don't have a heart attack, because I know this is going to shock you: I am so down and out, that I had to buy flip flops at Walgreens!
Manola, if I don't look like one of those models on Ocean Drive Magazine, I will never find a man, his bank account and therefore my human destiny, purpose and fulfillment!
Dear Disappointed Debbie,
Grasshopper, in searching for Ponce de Leon's elusive fountain of youth -- you have been shamefully deceived by fool's gold -- and I must give you a slap on the wrist for naively buying into the bullshit. I would like to remind you that South Beach is a real place where real people live and not the figment of some advertising agency's imagination.
Let me put things into perspective:
When you are a beanstalk with the figure of a broomstick who survives on cocaine, cigarettes and soda water, you don't sweat -- you dehydrate -- which makes you a very good candidate for a coma. Trust me, even VOGUE -- yes, even VOGUE, after hyping the Kate Moss heroine addict look -- has never gone for the coma look and neither should you.
Now, I hope you are sitting down. If not, please sit down and keep the smelling salts within arm's reach. I'm going to give you a difficult, but necessary, reality check.
IF YOU DON'T ACCEPT YOUR OWN FAT HAIRY ITCHY HOT TWAT, WHO WILL?
Will you sell your soul to the devil, just like Dorian Gray? Alas, let me teach you -- a real woman wears herself -- proudly, cheap flip flops and all. The Devil, on the other hand, wears nada.
Now, my dear ... may I suggest you move to Dallas? I hear it's good to girls named Debbie.
Photo by Shveckle Havemeyer, street photographer extraordinaire. Date: July 2006. Location: Macy's off Lincoln Road.