I feel a lot of kinship with Dolce Vita.
She tries really hard to be that spicy peach tart who likes a good cinnamon roll (and a little sugar in her bowl…) but can’t quite get the pieces together enough to pull off the whole outfit.

The ingredients are all there–juicy ripe fruits at the beginning, spicy vamp seduction in center, and lingering vanilla woods at the end–but the top is too young, the skirt too brash, the shoes too cute.

I keep trying it, hoping somehow she might have gotten over the awkward stage and come into her own, but in thirty years all that’s changed is that the gold leaf has flaked off the bottle.
Me too, Dolce Vita. Me too.

*

This song came out 90 years ago and is still one of the filthiest songs ever recorded.