molt

during my upbringing in mallasses TEXAS, i was told nothing more than to ignore my small brown dream of being a female zookeeper.
"6'4 gentlemen don't make good safari women," they told me. i had once met a man lying on skins behind his back, he'd survive a bus crash and wear the piece of glass stuck under his eye as a necklace. he made long silver songs. he had a magazine of bepenised women wearing bikinis and posing sexylike under the stars. he'd show me the women during my breaks as a skinner stony cashier at tacobellpizzahutbaskinrobinsdunkindonutsmomnpops. and my hair got real long. one day i was talking to the manager with my back turned, and a woman called me ma'am. she apologized profusely.
i felt something good, but felt real bad n scared at first. i thought i was doomed to be a sex freak and got real embarrased about it for a year and shaved myself bald all over. one day, when i had a stubble on my head, i was on the bus. i saw this woman, went crazy trying to figure out where i'd seen her, and then i remembered those magazines the musician told me. i knew their faces because i wanted to be respectful, not looking at their cocks and such. she had an awful lot of grocery bags, and she was struggling.
i asked her if she needed help, i called her miss. she nodded. the only conversation i made was telling her she was welcome after she thanked me in a sweedish accent.
i let'd my hair grow out and moved to massachu, s'and i became that safari woman in capri jarfid.
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