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WHY MY DAUGHTER SHOULD BE, IN FACT, MY SON

She walks pidgeon-toed.
She laughs in a low voice.
She loves kung-fu.
And basketball.
And baseball.
She does that heavily-muscled, barrel-chested man in bar swagger, where she holds her hands in fists by her side and walks with her shoulders, instead of her feet.
She roars like a lion.
Her mullet.
She hates lullabyes.
She likes rap.
She pees on the floor. Standing up.
She scratches her crotch.
She laughs when she farts.

Mother's intuition: I did name her Alex.

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