I know I'm a man, with my bulldozer and my dozens of illegitimate children, and the way I explode in the microwave and glow under a blacklight, but all I really want is to be your pretty lady. I used to look in the mirror as a child and imagine myself as a princess, a princess with hair made of cotton candy like Princess Lolly from Candy Land—the kind of lady with a liquid metal exoskeleton and a hypotenuse whose length is impossible to calculate, who comes down the chimney once a year and metastasizes so quickly that radiation can't stop her.
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