“Something smells good.”
I’m standing on a crowded street in Indianapolis. It’s a humid 83 degrees at night and my friends and I are celebrating her graduation from intrepid medical resident to full-time, fully-licensed M.D. But since we’re from LA, we’re dressed like rock stars in our Forever 21 slut-fits accompanied by their $1700 Gucci shoes and what not. (Apparently, it’s all about accessorizing, but hell if I know that. The only clothing I know is North Face and Marmot.)
The guy had jumped out in front of me to intentionally block my way. His friend surrounded us in the surge of sticky bodies on the sidewalk.
“I think that it must be you.” He smiles into my eyes.
A woman is like a ninja. Her body the perfect weapon, able to effortlessly dispatch even the hardest of men with casual simplicity. She is born with a natural arsenal in which to choose and depending upon her intent, can flirt, seduce, liquify, or terminate her opposites at will. Instead of tonfas, swords, throwing stars, and bamboo darts dipped in blowfish toxin, the modern, woman ninja possesses weaponry of mind, breast, shoulder, tummy, persona, tongue, etc. 21st century steel is no match when compared to the flesh of a woman ninja. Not even close.
