Let me paint you a picture.
We’re looking at a 12-year-old blond girl, medium height, maybe 85 pounds. Her hair is fly-away in the morning and runs to tangled stringiness in the afternoons. This is before people (or at least her family) started using hair conditioner. She stares at the ground a lot, but she’s a smart kid. Not a bad dancer either.
She’s at a neighborhood wedding this afternoon. She’s dressed to the preppy nines. Her pink heather Oxford shirt is tucked in, cuffs buttoned. Her grey & pastel plaid wool straight skirt has a conservative slit in the back, and she wears grey stockings to match the skirt. She gently places her grey leather, fan-adorned pointy shoes off to the side of the room and (here’s what makes this day stand out), hand to God, she centipedes across the entire dancefloor to Midnight Star’s “Freak-A-Zoid.”
Whaaah. He’ll be in your car later.
We’re *supposed* to be talking about our happy places today? I feel so fucking scooped.
Ladies, can I tell you how well the acting-like-straight-dudes-are-gay is working for me?
It’s sooooo much better than the imagining-the-audience-is-naked thing.