Relax, this isn't going to be a poem. It was an idea for a poem I had written on a scrap of paper years ago when I was living in Chicago (sometimes I'm happy that I procrastinate.) There was a girl behind me at a stop light in a silver Jetta. I can still recall her porcelain skin, raven black hair, almond eyes, and blood red lips. And with every passing mile and every passing year she becomes more perfect. Right now if they were sitting next to each other, the built-up memory of her would make CZJ look like the plain friend you'd pawn off on your buddy.
I was reminded of this recently by a fetching young lass with brunette hair like waves of chocolate silk driving a light blue Corola . Even if her every feature actually was mathematically perfect, I'd never be able to see her bleached mustache at a relative 60 mph. Plus the airbrush of the mind removes all imperfections. I want her to be perfect, so she is. One time I thought I saw Lauren Bacall in a car jam.
This post has no point. Um...but, hey-Danica Patrick!