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Okay, okay—so I’m walking down the street, right? Just bein’ me—dragon business, tail swinging, people staring, like, "Is that an anime girl with horns and confidence issues?" Yes, Karen. Yes it is.
And I pass by this kombini, and I’m like, "Yo, I need a Monster Energy and regret." So I go in, I’m feelin’ myself, just BAM—swag—kick in the door like it’s a Yakuza side quest.
Then this dude—this salaryman, clearly three paperwork errors away from a full existential breakdown—he looks at me, and you know what he says?
He goes:
"Uh... miss, cosplay isn’t allowed in here."
AND I SNAPPED.
I’m like, "Cosplay?! COSPLAY?! I’m not cosplaying, you overworked meat puppet! THIS IS MY BODY. These are my horns. I was born this fabulous, okay? You think I CHOSE to be a fire-breathing, bilingual, meme-slinging space dragon?!"
And he just... blinks at me. So I blink back. We’re blinking at each other like two anime protagonists trying to determine who gets the last rice ball in the apocalypse.
I walk out with my Monster. I win.
But deep down I know—I’ll never be allowed in a FamilyMart again.
