Similes are like so stupid.

I'm feeling bitter like my coffee; fragile like this egg shell and bland as a piece of toast.  If only I had some jelly to sweeten my outlook.  (I'm scattered, like hash browns; nasty, like grits; non-sensical, like french toast; beaten, like pancakes  -- take your pick!)

Turns out my immune system rejects make-up.  I've had an eye infection ever since my eyeliner-with-contact lenses extravaganza and it hurts like a motherfucker.  Right now, I'm getting ready for a charity luncheon at a country club where the Bishop will speak.  I'm pretty sure I can't get away with an eyepatch:  "and also with you, arrgghhh."  The eye gives me the excuse to give up on the make-up shenanigans this go around.  I have bigger concerns anyway, like the elastic impression my athletic socks left on my ankles that is quite visible now that I'm in my lady shoes.

So here I go, a lady who lunches at the country club, in a greasy spoon mood.