Like the internet needs another Molly.

When you ask your boyfriend to hit you in the leg as hard as he can with a stale baguette so you can see how well it holds up as a weapon, and you’re standing in the kitchen with your right leg held out perpendicular and he’s choking up on the bread like a junior varsity baseball player, aiming at the shin, and you wuss out and tell him to go for where the slipper-boot your mom bought you from Kohl’s two Christmases ago overlaps the tibia, looking at him with his eyes intent about to bash an artisanal french bread you should’ve eaten three days ago into your leg just above the ankle, and he lets it fly and the bread splinters like a cartoon stick, crumbs shrapnelling all over the kitchen. And you decide that even though your leg hurts more than you expected from a bread-billyclub, you probably couldn’t use a stale baguette as a murder weapon and eat it afterwards to dispose of the evidence, and holy shit you love this man, and maybe you guys should just go ahead and eat the Robiola without any bread.

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