A buddy of mine
is plagued by Virgos. She has me, for one. Her preteen daughter, just morphing
into the ugly years, is another. She’ll often tell me story of the girl’s
attitude then say, “Must be a Virgo thing,” which I’ll either confirm or
deflect to pubescent hormones.
She recently met
a guy whose birthday is the day before mine. It started out great, but went a
little weird after a few days, during which she was inclined to some action,
but held off for fear he’d “get all defensive” on her.
“Virgos don’t
get defensive,” I snapped.
Nonplussed at
the interruption, she blinked at me—and burst out laughing.
…
What?
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