A Pretty Girl is Like a Malady

I was standing in a convenience store one day, talking to a friend at the counter, when I noticed her looking over my shoulder. I turned to watch the following scene. A shapely young lady in her early twenties was browsing the drink cooler. She was wearing sandals, strategically torn jeans that included a tear high in the crotch that made it clear that she was not wearing underwear and that she had passed puberty. her short-sleeved leotard top was also torn revealing the fact that the store's air-conditioning was set a little high. She was wearing about three dozen rings, blue lipstick, red eyeshadow, several large safety pins through one ear, and what looked like a prescription bottle through the lobe of the other ear. One side of her head was crewcut and bleached blond, the other was shoulder length bright red with purple streaking. You could tell that somewhere under there she was a pretty girl. We were unobtrusively watching here when a young man, probably about her own age, bustled in wearing a business suit and swinging a briefcase. Faced with this vision he stopped dead, his mouth agape. She looked over at him. Her face twisted into a scowl. "What the hell are YOU looking at a--h---!" she growled. My self-control was admirable. My friend. however, had just taken a sip of coffee with which she proceeded to short-out the register.