Mum, You Are Smelling The Dahlias, No ?

Well, let’s check it, shall we …

• You gave me a diamond stud for my 21st. In platinum. Just what a boy ever wished for his debutante ball. The typical gold ohmigod-it's-a-friggin-key pendant ?! Like hello, not you.
  

• I “bought” you that dang, you hate it too, you bought that detox herbal tea, it sort of works, we kinda purged a few times, so we love it and you got us another pack . Yes, you share my nicole richie fascination. And my salubrious-self-loathing-for-our-body dang.

• I’m your personal Vogue on two unwaxed legs. Purveyor of good taste, good fashion and good beauty tips. At least, to you, I am. Afterall, I am the Anna Wintour of your life. With a nicer bob, of course.

• I need a facial. I let you know. You call our local Kose girl. She checks her booking. She’s available. And I’m hooked. Easy peasy.

• You saw my freshly plucked brow, and for a minute, you seem shocked. And then you resumed back on ironing the clothes . Unruly bushes are ought to be trimmed, and you agree-wholeheartedly. Just don’t over pluck it, you said.

• I was shrieking. Wailing of wanting plastic surgery should the face heal badly. You didn’t say yes. Or no. You were way too hysterical. Of me possibly being disfigured. To response. Poor you !

• I hate the scale. You hate the scale. Together, we cursed that pathological liar ! How could he ! But still we consult that muff every single goddamn day.

• I look good in pink. And of course, you think so too !

Hmmm, I've no friggin idea ...