Stop cramping my style, big boobs
Molly Young

I sort of feel like this about my hair. I have golden hair down past my elbows, and I get random stoners in the street saying they’d love to stroke my hair practically daily.

Which used to bug me. I’d be all like, “you don’t want to have a conversation? I’m a witty jokester too, you know. Wait, I’ll prove it, uh…emergency joke! Erm, what do you call ah…burrito in your pocket? Eh? You don’t know, do you. I shall tell you. You call a burrito in your pocket…wait for it…convenient! Hooray! Jokes… Okay, I might not be that good at jokes. Never mind.”

I was going to conclude this by saying that I don’t mind my hair distracting people anymore, because it means that now I can stab them suddenly and unexpectedly, when they’re distracted by my hair, with my rapier wit. I think I’ve just demonstrated that’s not what I know how to do. So never mind.

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