On first glance, everything seems normal with Jewel.
I mean... she's Jewel. This is what she does. She has the wavy hair and the cleavage; the hands that are small -- she knows -- but which are not yours, they are her own; and the constant threat that she'll break into a poetry recitation at the slightest provocation.
But... wait, jump back to the cleavage for a second.
OUCH. Love the smoky eye, but I'm concerned that it will soon be covered in mammarial matter that explodes from the pressure cooker that is her left breast. The right one is no picnic either, but man, Lefty looks like it's about to have the kind of inopportune tantrum the likes of which I haven't thrown since my mom would have to drag me into the Crying Room at church when I was four. Or was that 24? At any rate, much as I'm sure my fellow churchgoers would have preferred, I think I'd like to be hiding under my covers with a good book and a Diet Coke when this one hits its boiling point. I will also be taking a moment to apologize to my own chest for anything and everything I might have done to it accidentally, but that's between me and the girls.
