Marrying George Clooney

this is what i see reflecting back at me:
a woman — okay, ME — sitting in a chair, bluetooth in one ear (giving off a sharp teeny blue glow), cell phone in the pocket of the crisp white linen shirt, an iMac resting ever so gracefully on the lap (with yes, a nice little hot glow coming outta the cut-out apple logo), a camera plugged into both the iMac and the camera port, all this… while she downloads 652 pictures into the iPhoto application, and then, then… just for kicks, downloads a video from iMovie and then, then… goes into IMDB to check out what time the good wife is on. this is what i see when i look into the full length mirror. my image. this tech zoid freak image. and then if that isn’t quite a thrill a minute, i get up from my comfy chair and this is what i see in my/our bedroom, lying in what appears to be a meditative pose:
ken’s half-baked impression of mickey fucking rourke from the wrestler. ken flat on his back, a spanking brand new (fall/winter) black eye mask covering his baby blues, a black wrist brace slash bandage splint thing wrapped tightly around his hand and wrist cutting off what i believe is circulation, and a snazzy red – hot sexy revlon red – men’s sleeveless (yep, guinea) tee shirt, and … plugged into his eras, an iPod so he can listen and fall asleep to wayne dyer telling him to just chill. chill baby chill.
sure wayne can chill. he lives in hawaii, and has a gazillion dollars in the bank and now he’s telling everyone “no more excuses.” you know what… when you have that kinda dough, you can tell folks that blowing themselves is considered rough sex and everyone would believe that. i for one think no more excuses sounds like a stain remover.
i look at the two of us – ken and i, or is it ken and me – and i think, holy glob of shit, what the fuck happened. it used to be all about shoes. now it’s about plug-ins.

you want sexy: stick with barneys new york, or H & M, not the apple store.