You’re selling skulls, okay. What’s with the ‘tude?
Granted, it was the skull of a cow I was buying from you, which is the skull of an animal we humans verily eat and skin and use in any way we please, and score 1 for you, because the dead cow skull is a clichéd piece of southwester décor--along with those rusted antique appliances and hole-punched pieces of tin—but I don’t think it was necessary to so unceremoniously balk at my suggestion.
If I so choose to adorn my cow skull with rhinestones and feathers, I so choose, and this is free country, dammit! And if I so choose to ask you how I can further add to my skull and war weapon collection with the skull of a human (an animal we other humans—in a way—verily use) it is my right to ask. Maybe I was just joking (I wasn’t), and you didn’t get my unique sense of humor. Maybe YOU’RE the problem, judgmental skull seller. Yeah.
You see, we all get to choose. It was your choice to grow that grizzled mane of old lady hair and eschew any of the helpful products in the beauty aisle of your grocery store, growing hair and doing nothing attractive with it. I didn’t roll my eyes at your frizz. Inwardly, perhaps, but I’d never let you know I find your decisions in life—like the decision to never, and I mean never, wear sunscreen at any point during your tenure on this planet--to be foolish. These decisions are yours. You want to look like one of your saddles? Okay then.
What I mean to say is, you don’t get to tell me what to collect, missy. You don’t get to tell me what to do with what I collect. You know what? I’m off to the craft store. Oh, yeah. The craft store. You know what I’m going to buy there? Glitter. Lots and lots of glitter, and I’m gonna whore that cow head up till its as gay as a Technicolor Dreamcoat in a lube factory!