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You have a built-in excuse for not attending gallery openings.
Nobody will take you to the poetry reading because they know you'll laugh during the Really Serious Parts.
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There is always, always a creepy fat guy in the lingerie section buying giant-sized bras and lacy panties "for his wife."
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"Hey baby."
You ignore him.
"You pretty sexy."
Too true.
And then..wait for it...
"What are you, eleven, twelve?"
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I turn slowly around.
"What the fuck did you just ask me? Did you just ask me if I was ELEVEN FUCKING YEARS OLD? You fucking pedophile? Did you? 'Cause, first of all, I am 26 motherfucking years old, and second of all, I do NOT need to be dealing with some creepy-ass sweaty dude in the bra section at 10 IN THE FUCKING MORNING. Get the fuck away from me."
His eyes widen into saucers.
"Miss, I, uh...I'm really sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Oh my God. Honest, I didn't. I mean, yeah, I gave you a compliment and all, but I was asking if you were an eleven or twelve. Like, a size eleven. Cause I got a ladyfriend about your size, I mean you're sexy, but I'm shopping for my ladyfriend's birthday and all, I didn't mean like were you a kid or anything like that. You just look like you're my girl's size and I'm looking for the dress racks. Oh my God."
He scuttles away.
It's good to be me.
Sluts, this post doesn't have a lot to do with being a dyke. I just needed to spread the awkwardness around.
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Have a lovely morning.
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