The Forever Car, the Polished Ferrari, and the Retarded Little Head

Let’s talk about beauty, shall we?

Not the kind that saves the world—unless you’re talking about the traffic-stopping, neck-snapping type that makes men crash shopping trolleys into pensioners at Woolies. I mean beauty—capital B—the kind that walks into a room and every bloke instantly forgets why he was born.

Now, I’ll own it: I’ve had a life filled with physically beautiful women. Some you know—like the breathtaking Lillian Tan (if YKYK Langtrees beauty). Others you’ll never meet, because some stories are too personal, too sacred, or frankly, too complicated to explain without a whiteboard and three beers. My relationships have often looked like the front cover of a men’s magazine. And yet—here’s the kicker—it’s the not-so-physically-perfect ones that still haunt me.

The ones who smiled with their soul. Who touched me with kindness and made my bones feel warm. The ones who looked at me—not just at how I looked. And they didn’t leave my mind when they left my bed.

And here I am, years later, engaged to someone angelically beautiful. A woman who turns heads and silences rooms. She is a Ferrari in red—polished, prestigious, a fucking monument to aesthetics. But sometimes I find myself asking… is this the best forever car?

Because let me tell you, fellas—we all choose with our small head at some point. That little bastard down there? He’s got the wisdom of a Labrador and the attention span of a TikTok user. He’ll have you risking everything for a nice pair of thighs and a set of lashes that could land aircraft.

And the problem? Society never really teaches us to choose long-term happiness. No, we’re shown “hot” in movies, in ads, in porn, and somehow we think that marrying a beauty queen means we’ve won life. But what happens when that beauty comes wrapped in coldness? When connection dies in a golden cage?

When the woman you once worshipped like a goddess now treats your heart like it’s a dirty sock?

I’m not saying beautiful women are bad. Christ, no. Some of the most genuinely lovely humans I’ve known just so happened to be ten-out-of-ten stunners. But it’s not beauty that determines that—it’s character. And character doesn’t sag with age or disappear with makeup wipes.

So now, at nearly 50, I sit here with this strange ache.

A hunger not for sex, or curves, or status—but for soul. For warmth. For someone who wants to hold my hand because they love me, not because it looks good on Instagram.

Boys—have you ever driven a Ferrari in the rain? Looks great in the driveway, but she slides, she squeals, she’s twitchy as hell and god help you if you hit a pothole. Sometimes, what you really want is a Land Cruiser. Something that takes the bumps. Keeps going. Feels like home.

Ladies—I’d love your view too. Do you see men chasing beauty only to find themselves stuck with ego, detachment, and resentment? Do you choose soul or spark? Or can you actually have both?

Because right now, I’m sitting in this metaphorical garage with my arms crossed, staring at the keys.

And I’m wondering: Did I fall in love with the drive… or just the paint job?

Let me know your thoughts. Be honest. Be brutal. Be kind if you can. But most of all, be real.

Author: Master Yoda
For: Langtrees.com

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