A Penny For Your Thoughts

I have come to a rather disturbing conclusion and speaking most plainly(!), my ramblings are thus…

Ostentation is the superimposed mother of the Affluent Man. He familiarises himself with all antiquities historical, surrounds himself with boys toys reminiscent of the luscious James Bond bandwagon, his famed talents emanate from the females in his immediate social circle, the golden glow of his skin and peripheral impeccable nature of his abs, pecs and chest reverberate around the room in an air of sophistication whilst fumbling for Fendis feigning faintness (oh behold the blinding brightness of Adonis).

Said elements combined allow him to conjure the magic penny from behind pretty little manicured ears swooning at his every whimsical breath. Great palpitations!

Little realising, in fact, it is the metaphorical bad penny materialising from the illusioned space – Affluent Man is the bearer of ALL pennies bad. His delectable wisdom, heightened emotions, sensitive attentions, designer dress-sense extraordinaire, in fact, the entire essence of his entire being paints Cinderella frescos inside that once-upon-a-time cool serenely stern, cynical mind.

His inherent cosmology smelts solid cool, calm, collected common sensical natures into muddy puddles of radioactive, neurotic, paranoid ooze quite on the verge of spontaneously combusting altogether. Poof(!) disappearing into a shrubbery of shame.

The ordained caution bestowed upon the human psyche by Mama on one’s sixteenth birthday (which was only yesterday of course; a lady does not reveal her age under any circumstance, what poppycock, however, I digress) has been infiltrated by a dainty, sleeping beauty-esque doe-eyed Disney princess (cue cute speech-advantaged domesticated animals with mops, feather dusters and broomsticks) all singing, floating and dancing on the Arabian flying carpet, genie not included.

Affluent Man accumulates many a bad penny in his groomed, tweed waistcoat pocket; the penny need not pertain to any requirement according with monetary value. The pretty little penny can be the whisper of sweet pillow-talk nothings, a secret smile to which you presume the secret subject being smiled about is known only betwixt yourself and the smiler, a romantic wander along a moonlit riverside clasping hands under the inkpot sky jarred with jagged diamond stars, promising trips to deserted palm tree islands with glittering starfish swimming in the exotic turquoise emerald oceans of Bora Bora…[sigh] This is a very bad penny. A very bad penny indeed.

Concurrently, on the other hand, 5’7 guy who’s just my type, don’t like his baggy jeans but Imma like what’s underneath them – your everyday boy-dude-man on the street, perhaps not your everyday man as this type is lost to mankind, or has he just been found?

No, judging by his current actions, he has definitely been lost. And he does not own a pair of baggy jeans, he tailors his rather snug fitting jeans against two freshly prepared buns…however, his recent irkish behaviour aside, he is wide-eyed with love and beats a heart full of emotions so strong you drown in his very presence whilst your own heart leaps out of your chest at the merest glimpsing glimpse of him.

An ambition to be successful in his own right quite separately apart from any hereditary respect, honour, education and financial standing he was born to gain, digs life’s path as he moves forward, doe-eyed princess stumbles with him as he trips, falls, dusts himself off and starts again.

The cycle of neverending exposure to ‘hurt, hurt, hurt, love, hurt, hurt, hurt’ propels her forward into an abyss of eternal black holes twisting natural instinct of ‘enough is enough’ to a chronologically backward mantra, ‘give him time and the spectacularness will re-appear’. His bad pennies (dollars) admonish any accidental or deliberate heart stabbings inflicted, he stands like the archangel above the world’s sky, a saviour from grace-falling.

He may hold the secret key to the rest of her arbitrary life, but how to differentiate or to trust or to know? Is it really so arduous for a male – the male to whom there is an imagined permanent silver webbed chord of connection – to be honest, straightforward, dare I say ‘normal’, my idea of ‘normal’ at least?

When money is to be made, love takes second place but should love not prevail all and rise to the occasion? Sometimes love is just not enough. I throw caution to the wind, Affluent Man and 5’7 guy who’s just my type – they are intrinsically one and the same, are they not? Rest assured he, they, are no more amazing than the mosquitoe-ridden sand-mould covered pair of Primarni flip-flops left over from the beach holiday three and a half years ago, deposited in the depths of the darkest corner of the wardrobe, left to pilfer and rot the conscience. Spiders are chewing the synthetic straps as surely as the keyboard cursor continues to blink at my ridiculous consternations.

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