You are not hot. You could be though, if the expression on your face didn’t embody Cold War Era U.S.S.R. I mean, you’re built as close to Barbie as physically possible without surgical alteration, right down to the heels that you wear that contort your feet into permanent tiptoes. I think most women would kill to look like you.

From the neck down.

From there on up to your scalp you exude the aura of a sociopathic S.S. officer. Oh and your brisk, choppy stride? That does not make you look dignified or sophisticated, although I expect that you think it does. It makes you look like a cut thrat mega bitch who would gladly kick Oliver Twist into the gutter if he came to you asking for spare change. The 6 inch long nails don’t really help your image either, although I must admit, your new spring wardrobe of stiletto pumps (in lieu of the knee high stiletto boots) and the switchover from all black to the occasional very dark navy jeans does soften your image enough that I don’t think you’ll pull out my finger nails with glee if you were ever to somehow read this. You’d likely pull them out much more morosely than I first assumed. I hope you manage to thaw that icicle that props up your face before the KGB abducts you and appoints you as head matron of Siberia or something.

Disclaimer: Sorry, I know this might seem a bit venomous, but if you’ve ever been forced to sit in a room with someone who has the ability to make you feel miserable and angry just by their very presence, you might understand. I was in a pretty good mood this morning until I saw said Russian flouncing her way down the sidewalk like she was queen of Rozier. In all seriousness, I think she might be the love child of Cruella DeVille and Stalin’s great nephew or something. I seriously feel like all the color drains out of the world when she walks through it. Meanwhile, she probably doesn’t even know my name, nor does she give one flying fart about my opinion of her general vibe so I’m sure my occasional scribblings are of no consequence.