blurry donuts

M doesn’t care about what people think of her physical appearance. She’s a round person with a solid gut and stocky arms and stocky legs, and when it comes to her hair, it was as if she found the angriest person in the street, gave that person scissors and said, “Cut my hair however the fuck you want.” Her moustache has its own complicated personality and her favourite clothes are baggy t-shirts with slogans, baggy jeans that are too long for her legs and worn out slippers that reveal sunburnt, hairy toes. I’ve always been afraid to look at her armpits.

I have fun drinking with her though.

“Haven’t you ever thought of being like those Instagram girls?” I asked her. “You’d get more likes that way.”

“I am one of those Instagram girls. Haven’t you seen me in a bikini yet?”

We both laughed at this.

I’ve never asked her if she’s interested in men, or women, or both, or neither. Sometimes my friends and I speculate, but none of us have ever been brave enough to ask. And why does it matter? Why is her sexual orientation such a sensitive topic? And at what point in our lives did we put so much emphasis on how others look?

M and I have only ever been in one fight, and I no longer remember what it was about.



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