The rest of the items, though not necessarily on my "wish list," are still things that I was attracted to. I couldn't wear the tights and dresses, anyway. Don't believe me? Let me paint* you a picture. (*By "paint," I actually mean verbally describe. I could never paint. I will never be able to paint. If you were to hand me a paintbrush, some colors and a blank canvas, I would paint a crooked-line; two red, vampire-bite dots; and a stick. I would call it "Autobiography," further blurring and complicating my confusion between visual and written art.)
Anyway, I have ripped through a lot of tights. Dozens of pairs of leggings. I'll exaggerate and say that, when I step into a new pair, my jagged, misshapen toenail will catch a tiny thread, a pinch of nylon, and shred the entire leg. My hobbit-shaped feet look engorged within the pattern, and it isn't until I'm about to step out of the house that I realize I have a run stretching from my ankle to my thigh.
As for the dresses? Well, with my height and inseam, any "mid-length" tea-dress turns into a drape-y shirt that exhibits my cheeks without even bending over. *fox whistle*
If I put them together, I'd be a hot mess.
With hobbit feet.

I had to look up the word "borsty." And I'm still not exactly sure what it means, but...it sounds funny, so I like it. Way to make a grad student feel stupid, Dawn.
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