Well, one girl, came over for the barbecue, expert on feminosity, or so she claims, I don’t think any womanoid guilty of appreciating the fine humour of Jonti Picking is in a position to make a claim to that coveted position. She completely understands the difficult situation I am in, doesn’t stop her from laughing at me but she does her best to help me and coach me with my newfound weekly gender identity.
Be it so, her motives weren’t completely altruistic, apparently this implies feasting out her life long dream of applying makeup to my mug, I feel the rouge doesn’t quite suit my features. Apparently a girl also doesn’t burps, she said while having burped five minutes prior due to iced tea.
Furthering my point though, as usual she again managed to smuggle two articles of my wardrobe through my customs of guilt which she’ll end up wearing like it’s nothing, she might want to just bring some clothing in that oversized purse in case of rain, or you know, bring one of those 20 articles that are located some-where in the darkest crypts of under her bed back for that case, if the weather god’s are pleased with those deeds, she can even actually consider to return them. Also, my hair is longer than hers.