I hate shaving my legs.

I hate that in order to be perceived as pretty and feminine, I have to shave my legs.

I would like to wear shorter skirts, but those scraggly little black hairs stop me.

I hate everything about shaving my legs.

I hate razors.

I hate shaving cream.

I hate soap.

I hate the first shave after a long time.

I hate having to shave my legs twice in one week.

I hate shaving my legs in the shower, and all the soap runs off before you can get anything done.

I hate shaving my legs in the sink, standing on one leg and lunging like some sort of over-compensating rocker.

I hate twisting myself into a pretzel in the bathtub, trying to reach that elusive bit on the back of my upper calf, only to have my heel (which is braced on the soap shelf) slip at the last second, sending me spinning in this horrid, luke-warm soapy bathwater like Alan Moore did in his grave after seeing the movie of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

I hate shaving my legs.

On a related note, I hate waxing my legs.

But ask me sometime about the time Tyne and I tried waxing Chad's chest.

I rather liked that.