Ryan cut his hair.
But not just a hair, or even his hair, mind you.
No, he completely and singularly severed his beautiful golden bangs. His forelock, if you will.
see?
Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. He was (and is) a very impressive and influential individual.
I keep explaining to Ryan that monk bangs are a good thing. Sexy.
And yet, he keeps insisting that it's somehow my fault.
Like it's a bad thing.
I keep explaining to Ryan that monk bangs are a good thing. Sexy.
And yet, he keeps insisting that it's somehow my fault.
Like it's a bad thing.
Well! What was I supposed to do when he grabbed his bangs and threateningly held scissors to them while shouting, "Say I'm your boyfriend! Say it right now or I'll cut!"
Maybe I panicked.
Maybe I said "You can be my boyfriend two times a week," which he took to mean... well. "Cut," I suppose.
Love, trauma, and the Protestant Reformation,
Banana
1 comment:
remember how i coined that term when i did it to myself? me= famous. ryan= luther.
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