Little Holes

  • Reading time:1 min(s) read

I don’t know what’s even in my head anymore or why I think the things I do or what I like or want. Everything seems to be up in the air, occasionally landing arrow-side down to pierce my skull with some new whim that was not originally a part of my makeup.

To that end, for my own purposes at least—I’m not judging people, as usual; just describing my brain—I’ve never understood piercings. They wig me out, feel like… obvious sorta institutionalized rebellion, and I don’t get wanting to permanently harm one’s self like that.

But… like.

The thought has come to me more than once recently.

I think it’s since the boobs, honestly. They seem to have catalyzed a whole genre of thought that I don’t know how to manage, and only understand from the surface and at at distance. There’s an overwhelm of unreason.

Who am I becoming?

I guess we’ll find out, I dunno.

I have however learned that lace does not have to be stiff and scratchy and can be as soft and comfortable as any other fabric. This may have changed the trajectory of my future in more ways than I can predict.