I dare you to compliment my earrings
Y Chromosome: So I heard about your unfortunate black sweater incident. What did you do with it?
Me: The sweater? I threw it away.
Y Chromosome: You could have just washed it and it would’ve been fine.
Me: No, but it would always be my toilet sweater. People would be all, ‘hey, nice sweater’ and I’d be all, ‘This is my TOILET SWEATER’. Kinda like a Cosby sweater, but without ever having been in contact with anything as heinous as jello.
Y Chromosome: …What? You don’t need to TELL anyone that it was in the toilet.
Y Chrome so doesn’t get it, but you do, don’t you, people inside the computer? You can’t tell me that you’ve never had some sort of iteration of this conversation with a woman you know:
“Mary, great job on that report.”
“Oh, that? Yeah, it has three typos in the last paragraph on the second page. See? Right here after the part about the TPS reports. See how I misspelled that? Here, I have a marker. LET ME HIGHLIGHT THE TYPOS FOR YOU.”
–or–
“What a lovely smile you have, Mary!”
“Well, actually I have a tooth in the back so rotten it’s actually black and starting to disintegrate. Here, let me show you.”
At which point Mary unhinges her jaw in a manner not unlike an anaconda and starts coming toward you, “THEEEEE, AHHHTTS RIIIIIIIIHHHH THAAAAA IN BAAAAAACHHHH”
–or–
“Mary, that sundress is so nice!”
“Oh, thanks! I got it from a flea market, and I got the worst case of pubic lice EVER because I forgot to wash it before I wore it. LOOK.”
As for me, I’d probably get as far as:
“Hey, nice sweater.”
“Thanks! It’s my toilet sweater!” And then, realizing my gaffe, I’d turn bright red, and, rendered entirely speechless, shuffle away, leaving my unsuspecting compliment-giver to think that I regularly bathe in the toilet—hell, practice my 500 backstroke in the toilet—and have designated clothing for that very purpose. And then she’ll realize, Oh, THAT’S why her hair always looks like that.