Today I was walking behind a woman, tearing her to pieces in my head. Thought she had to be French, who else would wear tight corduroy dark green jeans and a short jacket over a less than stellar ass? Her wispy hair was a giveaway too. No make-up and a tight, abrasive walk. Then I stopped and realized I was the middle aged broad with the fried orange/yellow mess that passes as hair and one of those outfits my ex used to call my Viet Namese costumes. Time to shut up. But yes, she was French.
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