ME, while looking at myself in the bathroom mirror this morning: Too much cleavage?

INTERNAL VOICE OF REASON (IVOR), sanctimoniously: If you have to ask, you should change.

ME: But I really don’t have anything else to wear to this thing tonight. Plus this dress is actually pretty conservative. Look how long it is. It’s like something June Cleaver would wear while baking brownies. Real brownies too, not pot brownies. Plus, look, flowers! I could wear my pearls.

IVOR: Floral prints do not make a dress conservative. You bought that thing in BUDAPEST forfuxsake.

ME: Don’t be racist.

IVOR: I am the internal voice of reason. I am not racist. I am merely pointing out that the standard of skin-flashing-arounding is different in Hungary than it is in San Francisco. Don’t try to turn this around on me, slutbag. We’re not even allowed to go around naked in San Francisco anymore. I’m probably protecting you from arrest. Also, you should think about not showing your bra straps all the time. People think that is tacky here.

ME: I am not a slutbag. Who are you to call me a slutbag? YOU’RE a slutbag, slutbag.

IVOR: Twat? I cunt hear you!

ME: Really mature.

IVOR: Seriously, I can’t stop looking at your tits. Put those things away. If I can’t stop looking at your chest, do you think anyone else will be able to? Enjoy your walk in FolSOMA today, attention whore.

ME: What if I sit up straight all day so you can’t really see my bra?

IVOR: You slouch. And plus, it is a deep plunge bra. I can practically see your belly button cleavage.

ME: Sigh. I need some new clothes.

IVOR: Be that as it may, you are also so white, I can see the blue veins in your boobs.

ME: Eeeew! FUCK!

IVOR: THAT is what I have to say to appeal to your sense of decorum?

ME: Fuck. Fuck. Fuckitty fuck fuck fuck. Motherfucking FUCK.

IVOR: It is now 9:05. Don’t you think you should change and get to work?

ME. Yes.

IVOR: Go.

ME: I still don’t have anything to wear to this thing that is sassy, sexy, not too ho-ish, and not too boring. It’s a fine line and I do not possess such attire. Because I am a LOSER. Everyone has better clothes than me.

IVOR: I’m sure you can find something nice to wear.

ME: Have you SEEN my fucking closet?

IVOR: Well, that’s true. You do buy a lot of Beltway-looking clothes.

ME: Fuck you.

IVOR: Nice collection of Mr. Rogers sweaters, Tittielicious.

ME: I hate you. Plus, Mr. Rogers’s clothes are too hip for the Beltway.

IVOR: Why don’t we go ahead and offend everyone from everywhere you’ve ever lived? But moving on from that, what about your copper hot pants? Why don’t you wear them?

ME: The shirt I wear them with isn’t ironed. Do you know the last time I ironed? Like eight months ago. See this huge pile of clothes? This enormous mountain is crap I haven’t ironed. Ooo, look! That’s where my butterfly t-shirt went!!! Fly, butterfly, fly! Fly awaaaaayyyyy!

IVOR: FOCUS, YOU FREAK!

ME: Sorry.

IVOR: What about your leather shirt?

ME: Dude. It’s a turtle neck.

IVOR: Your boobs still look good in it, and you can wear your hottie-hottie shoes.

ME: My hottie-hottie shoes are from BUDAPEST, asshole. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea that I’m a STRIPPER or something.

IVOR: I can compromise, my sweet little slutbag.

ME: I don’t believe one should compromise oneself. One should remain true to oneself for if one isn’t, what is one but a shadow of oneself? A mere wisp—

IVOR: Just put that shit on and go to work. Ferchrissakes, what’s the matter with you?!?!?!

ME: Fine. But I’m wearing my Donna Summer earrings.

IVOR: I would expect nothing less with copper pants.

ME: Thank you.

IVOR: You’re welcome.