I’m going to be an Italian woman.   

I was watching this foreign film about an Italian guy trying to extract himself from a relationship with one woman while sleeping with another.  The first time we meet the passionate Cloe, woman numero uno in the film, she’s sunbathing topless.  When her bully of a boyfriend comes round to demand she get ready for dinner, she yells something impassioned and Italian at him, like, “I cannot live like this, you are nothing but a worm!  I have no use for you.  This isn’t love, it’s brutalization!”  Cloe slips on a wrinkled, sheer blouse and ties her hair in a loose knot yet still manages to look absolutely stunning.  Then she and her man go to a restaurant where she continues to don the see-through top, proudly displaying her breasts to any other patron who dares to look in her direction.   

I’m totally gonna start doing that.    

Really, I’d been working Italy into my wardrobe for years, but lots of items have remained hidden in my closet since I’ve been back in the States.  In fact, much of the vivacious, voluptuous, hot-blooded textures Europe gave to my character have been subdued in an attempt to re-acclimate.  Undoubtedly, it would be kind of odd to go to the movies in a busty, Sophia Loren-type getup or disagree with a colleague at work by telling him, “Your cruelty seeps into me like poison.  You are a fool and you are dead to me.”

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