For four days, I concealed myself in M.'s yard, studying her every move. I adopted her hairstyle and many of her alluring mannerisms—the smoldering looks of abject hatred, the je ne sais quoi, the dangerously volatile hands—but there still seemed to be something missing. It had to do with the texture of her skin. Even through binoculars, however, I could not identify the various creams and potions on her dresser. So I found it necessary to force entry—in the dark of night, bien sûr—for the sake of my research.
It is worth mentioning that though M. seems in other respects a fairly solid citizen, her driving style is highly erratic—even dangerous—and she often yells French curses at innocent passersby. So why a woman who is so obviously a danger to the community should be allowed to roam free while little old me is shackled with an unfair and highly inconvenient restraining order is somewhat of a mystery.
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American Vixen, please help me clear my name. And also, if you could, please speak to M. on my behalf. I know that if I could borrow her Christian Louboutin pumps and matching alligator clutch for just one night, I would truly capture her spirit.
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