“You’re too beautiful for that buuulllllllshit,” he says to me.
The ‘bullshit’ being his misguided interpretation of a facet of my most sacred emotional bond.
This ‘bullshit,’ determined after having known me for less than a day. After accusing me of lying about every personal detail I shared. After questioning me about banal objects and accusing me of hiding some sentimental truth.
The only bullshit here, sir, is telling me my business like you know me.
… and if you really understood me, you’d realize it’s bullshit to determine what I deserve by my physical appearance.