I feel so alone. So, very, very alone. Indeed, I am desperately lonely, despite the fact that I am smack-dab in the middle of the face of one of the most famous, wealthiest, and (allegedly) sexiest douche bags of all time. They say it's lonely at the top (of the neck of a famous quarterback). And it is.
I just feel like the .5 inch stubble and Adam's Apple detract attention away from me. I know I'm deep enough to store my own mini-bowl of blue cheese dipping sauce. Or salsa, if you prefer. Or even Sabra hummus, which is the official dip sponsor of the NFL, and therefore spends a lot of time in me.
And I know I'm a rare and culturally desirable genetic accident, like Marilyn Monroe's mole or Liz Taylor's eyelashes.
But Gisele just doesn't seem to see it that way. She's too busy running her hands through that thick shock of dirty blonde hair and staring into those two limpid blue windows into the soul with dollar signs for pupils.
I just feel like my contributions to Tom's career are not adequately appreciated or acknowledged. I feel like crying out to the world: I am here, I am Tom Brady's chin dimple.
And I matter.