Go find your dreamgirl. She's out there.
But she's not me.
She probably smells like candy, without having to use the chemical free Ava Anderson perfume I wear that is made from the oils of crushed flowers mixed with cinnamon.
She is somewhat naive about the world, and needs your guidance on even small matters, but still works hard and supports herself, even if she's married to you.
She's beautiful.
She has big full lips.
She skis, she golfs.
She dances.
I'm not her.
My man will like me just the way I am.
He'll love my tight little ass and my C-cups.
He'll explore my body and count the freckles on my back instead of telling me that the Irish age poorly.
He'll look more at me than he does in the mirror.
He'll need to give me a kiss for no reason sometimes.
He'll be honest.
He won't care about materialistic things like clothes and cars.
They don't define him.
They aren't him.
And he isn't you.
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