I keep on telling them, it doesn’t matter how I look! I’m still one of the guys.
Yes, that witch’s curse has changed my body to be identical to the last model I made a sexist comment about, but that doesn’t change anything. I’m still wearing plaid shirts and knocking back beers at the bar. They needn’t treat me any different just because I’m prettier than anyone they’ve ever dated and with a bust that makes all the girls in hooters jealous when we go in for wings.
Nothing has changed. At all. I wish they would stop staring at me, and undressing me with their eyes.
Nothing has changed! There’s no reason why I’ve started to wear lower-necklines on my shirts. There’s no reason why I’m finding any excuse to touch their forearms, their biceps, even their thighs. There’s no reason that I’m out every night, trying to see if they’ll drink enough to have enough nerve to make a pass at me… or I’ll drink enough so that the nagging idea that I really want to take them into the alleyway behind the bar and see if I can suck them all dry becomes reality.
I don’t want to do that. Nothing has changed. I don’t want that.
What do I want?
Well, if you’re asking, I’d love another drink.