Bitter Old Lady
Of course, I’m bitter! What the @#+*?% else do you expect, you whippersnapper!
You try donning some frothy blue-white Bozo-wig to cover your disappearing iron-gray wisps and tell me how you feel! Do an attitude check after your breasts deflate into wrinkly flapjacks and head south, and see what you come up with! Why, I could just smack you about the skull with my cane, if only I could lift the dang thing!
Think I like your precious puppy bounding through my euonymous? I didn’t lay those things out with micrometer and straightedge just so some slobbering canine could dig them up! And, how do you think I like staring through pop-bottle-bottoms all day?
You try buttoning high-top shoes with arthritic fingers! Or covering up ol’ lady stink with cheap gardenia! And where’s the hip fashion for the hip-replaced? What? — all you’ve got is bland black, navy and dusty rose, or some of those garish floral wallpapers you call style?
And, oh the ultimate indignity! Even though my body’s become some gnarly old stick with odd bumps and knots, every old fart in front of Ed’s Barber Palace still has to pop up with some perverse suggestion or other! Like they’d even have half a chance!
I got reason to be bitter, I tell ya!