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So, now that I have this piercing, I've entered this secret society of people who understand the struggle of getting shampoo in their eye while trying to keep their head tilted at a 90-degree angle. It's like joining a club where the membership fee is pain and the initiation involves saying goodbye to peacefully washing your face. And let's talk about the etiquette, or lack thereof. The other day, a friend tried to give me a hug, and I had to dodge like I was in the Matrix. I felt like I was in a real-life game of limbo - how low can you go without causing injury? Forget handshakes; it's all about the awkward wave from now on.
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Having a piercing is like having a built-in alarm system. Forget about ever sneaking up on someone again. I can't surprise anyone anymore; it's like I have a tiny wind chime attached to my face. Every step I take, every move I make, the piercing is watching you. And sleeping? That's a whole new challenge. I can't even turn over without sounding like a cat burglar breaking into my own bedroom. I feel like a walking, talking security system. "Attention, attention, unauthorized movement detected in the kitchen at 3 AM. Perimeter breach!
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Trying to be professional with a piercing is like trying to be elegant while eating spaghetti - it's just not happening. I walked into a job interview the other day, all dressed up and confident. But the moment I sat down, the piercing became the elephant in the room. Or should I say, the metal in the room? I could see the interviewer trying not to stare at it. I thought about making up some profound story about finding it on a mountaintop during a spiritual journey, but I figured honesty was the best policy. So, I blurted out, "I thought it looked cool." I didn't get the job, but I did get a free pass to the "Weirdest Interviews Ever" club.
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You know, I recently decided to get a piercing. Yeah, I thought, why not? Let's add a little edge to my life. So, I march into the piercing parlor, trying to act all cool, like I'm not scared at all. The piercer, though, looked at me like I was signing up for a lifetime of regret. I'm lying there, trying not to look nervous, and they hand me this mirror. I take a peek, and suddenly, I'm questioning all my life choices. I see this little piece of metal staring back at me from my eyebrow, and I'm thinking, "Well, there goes my chance of ever working at a library. No 'Quiet Please' sign can save me now!
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