Having the need to look less like Harry from Harry and the Hendersons in my southern region, I made the appointment—my first-ever appointment for a Brazilian wax. My girl does it all the time, and swears by it. "It doesn't hurt," she says. "You'll get used to it," she says. "The lady who gives them is so gentle," she says. Dear not-fucking-gentle-at-all lady, stop telling me to fucking relax. You just placed heated wax on my squeezebox and yanked so hard that you stumbled away from me. I get it, my promised land has a little moss growing, but you used more strength than needed to start a fucking lawn mower. My private eye can only handle so much pain before I eventually scream out. And I know we're right in the next room and other ladies can hear us. But if I'm okay with them laughing at my pain, then they can handle a fucking curse word. We were right to abort mission when we did. Three strips in, four fucks given, and I look like a child with alopecia. Go gently fuck yourself!!—Anonymous
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