And so the dance begins. Me storing the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue underneath copies of Esquire and Paste*, only to have The Girlfriend eventually find it, say, “I don’t know why you find this so interesting,” and proceed to flip through every page making comments like, “Look at her eyebrows,” or “Oh honey, how many meals have you thrown up today?” And I glance over her shoulder, chuckle and say, “Yeah, totally. How many? Like five at least, right? It’s awful. She’s just awful.”
You’re the most awful one of all. Sometimes when it’s late at night and I’m by myself and drunk, I look at pictures of you and wonder “How did you get so awful?”
Reminds me of Maui. The sunset, not the hot girl in the bathing suit.
Just like your job!
Hold on . . . something’s not right here.
There we go! Hmmm Mmmmm.
She seems like fun.
“Molly, how does it feel to be posing in a bathing suit that any man in America would choose over a night in bed with you?” (Molly Sims in a $30 million dollar bikini made of diamonds.)