I put on a sweater. I brush my hair. I find a blue skirt to wear. There I am. in the mirror. Brushing my hair. My sister is in despair. Because I didn’t wash my hair. She has washed hair. Unlike me. Who doesn’t care about hair. I don’t know why she cares so much about hair. Its hair. It's not going to choose what you'll wear. Your mom chooses what you wear. And if hair only cause you despair, why have hair. Why do I have hair, why not shave it off. I wouldn’t care, but my mom cares. But she can't choose what I want to wear. She can only control her hair, not mine. it's just hair. I wear what I wear. And I hate hair. It only causes you despair, and you get so worked up over hair. it's just hair. I am going to tell my mom that it's my hair, not hers. Cause it's just hair. Then I realise I'm talking to myself in the mirror. And that, that is weird. Because I've been talking to myself for 11 minutes. Then again, I don’t care. And why was I making a poem? I don’t know. Why am I still talking to myself, I don’t know! It's now been 13 minutes. Its official. I'm crazy. But keep in mind, we love you mothers everywhere.
Yep, I'm crazy-
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