I’m a good looker. When I see an attractive young woman in some sort of New York fashion top adorned with a thrift store bought scarf and tight, dark blue, jeans around the hips; I take a good look. I get a look at the face and the legs, the over-all disposition of her body and her attitude, and then I get a good long look at the shape of her ass as she walks by. Size isn’t the issue; shape is where the aesthetic should be judged. But I digress.

I am a good looker. I walk it, I talk it, and I carry the flavor. I judge it and am judged by it. Never by how I look or by what I wear, but by how I perceive and what I observe. Such great talents of mine should be extolled and shared; thereby I am judged by my ability to express my acute perceptions to an ally in such deeds. In order for this communiqué to be successful I would have had to ascertain my ally’s flavor correctly. For it is only then that they can appreciate my candid eye. For if I have diagnosed their flavor incorrectly, even once, then they may never trust my good look ever again.

Too many times an attractive young lady misses the flattering speculation of the good looker giving them the good look. Too many times their eyes are buried in their text machines, their minds existing in the world of; “Ah jeez mom, I don’t want to see Aunt Carla this Saturday night, my favorite band is playing.” or; “No Dan, the box of chocolate does not make up for the drunken head you allowed to happen from my best friend.” If only they could live in the now, and take in the random activity occurring around them. Then they would see the eyes of the good looker looking them over, appreciating all the trouble they go through to look good. Then they could smile, and maybe laugh, and have a better day.