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September 10, 2008
She minces her way up Sixth Avenue in silver platform sandals from which orange-tanned toes struggle to escape, a short black skirt whose hem is aggressively jagged on purpose, and dyed-to-match hair nearly reaching that hem, collecting leers from men from all walks and crawls of life. We're maybe 20 feet behind her jiggling buttocks.

"Nice outfit, Poca-fucking-hontas," I say, turning to my left to share an eyeroll/smirk combo-pack with my friend. "Stunning."

"I'd like to poke her hontas," he says.

"What does that even mean?" I say.

"I have no idea," he says.

We giggle into each other's face.