Dear miss single successful

I am seated in front of my DELL LATITUDE/E6400, scrolling down pages in my surgery books, I am thinking, thinking of that man I saw with a large fleshy mass protruding from in between his buttocks, buttocks that were wrapped in a loosely fitting white boxer, with streaks of red (from the mass) and green from the opening just above the mass that is the anus. My phone rings, it’s Jordan, he sounds edgy (he is not good at concealing any emotion), shit, this is the tenth time he has called, I swear I didn’t hear it ring, wait, I forgot to remove the silent mode. He wants us to talk; I can smell a break up. I am almost sad but a break up will be cool. Don’t think I don’t love him, he is tall and not so dark (my type), he speaks amazing English (fish is his staple food), he is a banker, he cooks (I love love this), he is an excellent dancer, he goes to church though I haven’t heard him confess that ‘yesu ni bwana wa maisha yangu” he is the man I want, but he can’t have me, I can’t have him too. He talks too much about money and the economy, and appreciation and depreciation, he hates blood and the way I talk about pus and foul smelling vaginal discharges as if I am talking about vanilla scented condoms. He hates quickies, I love them (they are time saving). He hates it when I wear a lab coat on top of my chiffon blouse. My pediatrics textbook (Nelson’s textbook ) is too heavy he can’t lift one, I have about six like those ones to read and he thinks three straight hours of reading is too much. He is always thinking about babies, I am always thinking about my finals. He is just like the lawyer that he replaced, who was just like the accountant he had replaced.
The dreams of children clinging onto my wrapper, a husband dropping me at work, fat in-laws to deal with and a messy house to arrange are slowly fading. The only men who understand my kind of life are my classmates, but they think I am too old for them (even though they got their first erections before my breast buds appeared), they still sag their trousers though. The qualified doctors are all married to teachers, nurses, and jobless women, and besides they spend too much of their time oscillating between the hospital and the bar and I don’t want to be a second wife to some toothless drunkard surgeon.
My youth is far spent, my biological clock is ticking. school will soon be over, I am moving towards money and money is moving towards me, but farther and farther from men. the closer I move towards my dream car, the farther they move away. One thing is for sure, I will cling to my dreams that is why I have this feeling, that I will end up like you miss single successful woman. Tell me how did you end up like that? Choice or circumstance? How do you live in a five bed-roomed house alone? Isn’t it lonely? What dreams do you dream, wet or dry? Do you have sex? With whom? How often? Do you ever long for another cuddling mate besides your pillow? Do you ever long for whispers and hot kisses?
I love the way your car keys dangle from your well manicured hands though, I want to be able to walk in those six inch stilettos of yours, and look down and see short men. The way your skirt ends just above your knees, the pink bra that you wear beneath your black chiffon top, the way your hips swing this way and that way when you walk, the smell of your perfume, it pulls them to you, they wink, they shake their heads (in approval), they follow your form with their eyes, mouths and their manhood. But you single successful woman, you walk on, head up,  hands clutching your handbag as if nothing is happening, I love your focus, but do you want to tell me you never notice? That you do not feel light headed with all those winks?