The other day I was having dinner with a close friend and his bimbo, yes, you know the type- loud as a motorbike when the open their mouth, pair that with a condescending attitude and an empty mind. I am not one given to the habit of judging the authenticity of people’s relationships and especially not those of their life partners. I am a liberalist who believes that everyone has rights as to whom they choose to fuse their genitals. For all I know, she probably gives him good head and hell knows how important that is in a romantic relationship.
“Maybe it is just me or I am allergic to her strain of daddy issues.”
However, I bear strong instincts that this particular bimbo is not good enough for my friend. For starters she gives off a whiff of desperation and this is surprisingly coupled with the mind of a social climber who is inept in the ways of making it higher up the social heap. She is the type of person to fish for complements on her knock-off handbag or flimsy watch and all I can do is engage her like a child. It is sad really the way she equates having middle-class relatives from posh neighbourhoods to being automatically superior. I used to enjoy meeting with my friend and sharing a meal because he is undisputedly generous and excellent company but since this woman of his became a permanent fixture, I have developed some cold feet to these meet ups. Maybe it is just me or I am allergic to her strain of daddy issues.
Anyways, the conversations were dull as they usually are with these things. Luckily we were in some fancy restaurant; those that have the ambience of a wealthy man’s living room. There was a fire cracking in the corner where a log was slowly making its contribution to the global warming industry. It left a scent of lavender in its wake and I made a mental note to self to make scented fires in my house when I become wealthy. I usually zone out of conversations when the bimbo in question begins to speak of her rich relatives and the brand of champagne that they use to clean their teeth. My mind is only activated when key words are mentioned. In this particular conversation the bimbo mentioned her mother, she rarely talks about her mother whom I have come to discover she disapproves of in one way or the other. The choice adjectives she has ever used to describe her mum in my presence are controlling, petty and disorganized.
Every fibre of my being aches to help my friend because I think very lowly of people who speak ill or their parents (With the exception of Eminem; because he’s white and them folks be different). In this particular occasion she called her mother petty. I have no idea where people get off talking ill about their parents to perfect strangers. As far as I am concerned my parents are saints, up there with the Wangari Maathais and Barak Obamas. I hope my friend not only reads this but also sees beyond the good head and wild sex because in my world any woman who talks ill of their mother has a soul as black as hell.