It is challenging to keep my thoughts of Katy Perry's hotness—be it audibly, intuitively or writtenly—on the PG tip. This photograph, lovely as it is, was chosen intentionally by myself because it keeps my mind out of the gutter. Sort of.
Well, at least it highlights the beauty of her face rather than other (ahem) more obvious physical attributes such as...
Cue the internal dialogue.
Don't think it Tim. Dude, just shut it down. And for God's sake don't say it out loud!
KATY PERRY'S GOT A GREAT BODY! GREAT BODY! LARGE, LARGE KNOCKERS! I COULD EASILY CUT OUT RED MEAT IF THOSE MELONS WERE EDIBLE.
My apologies. I'd feel even more sexist right now had this exercise not been about describing beauty. So I guess a little blanket objectification is par for this course. Besides, who knows, she may be a downright disagreeable person.
Okay, if I was writing about a woman that resembled this picture, I'd try not to put my entire impression of her down on paper. Obviously, this is the type of look that I like, but as we talked about in last week's class, unless I'm making this woman the antagonist, I'd better hold off on the super-hot attractive talk or every reader will hate her.
Also, of course, you don't want to overdo the character descriptions. If you do so, you stifle one of the best things about reading versus watching a movie. We love forming how a character looks—in our mind's eye, not someone else's—as we read. Now when I read and a woman is written as attractive, this may be how I picture her, but that's a digression as this assignment isn't about my own weird psychological makeup.
Okay, for real, here goes:
Dude this chick was smoking. The End. You see? We all can come up with a very different picture of this woman in our own minds, no?
Just kidding. Here's my no BS attempt:
I took my usual spot in the restaurant nearest the street-side window. The adjacent road was dark with a drizzled slickness. Drop by drop, the doldrums of my day drifted through with the same easy rhythm of the rain's soft patter.
I watched as an umbrella-less woman used a newspaper for protection. She ducked down low, arched her shoulders and scurried into the restaurant.
The muted jingle of the door's bells had just ceased as she removed the newspaper, shook it out, and then shivered dramatically. I hate to see a good newspaper get soaked...it falls apart, and becomes generally unreadable. But I enjoyed watching her shiver.
One look at this young woman, and I'd gladly run into the New York Times headquarters with a fire hose set to stop-the-riot-level.
Her hair hung low, but was frazzled with the unkemptness that only damp hair drying can provide. Her face held a soft glow that was just as intimidating as it was inviting.
Her age was a tough call. She could be 22, or 42. She had that type of easy, no hassle elegance that masquerades age effortlessly. We all know plenty of people willing to kill for that quality.
Her deep green eyes flashed towards my table. It was then that I realized I had been staring. I slammed my eyes down and rushed a sip of my coffee. It went down the wrong pipe and I started to choke and cough, while generally feeling like a total dumbass.
I felt a firm slap on my back, and when I looked up, there she was. "Are you okay?" she asked in a voice that purred soft as a kitten, while sounding just as dangerous.
