Why, oh why, does everyone fall over laughing when I express, “I am more English than French.” Because, a ZEBRA CAN’T CHANGE IT’S STRIPES. Could it be the hands flying in the air, the words coming at excessive speed or the insistence of kissing both cheeks? Unbeknownst to the self, one’s essential nature seems to pop up, just like that, uninvited. The cat is out of the bag staring me right in the face and it’s not all black and white. It is, however, undeniable. I’m so frickin’ French.
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