I'm not usually one to rant, but that's a lie.
I'm just such a narcissist that I assume they're informative enough to be forgiven.
(Or that I'm drunk enough to be self deprecating during the delivery) .
But truthfully, speaking about the issues surrounding cis women receiving unprovoked male attention is something I actively avoid.
I appreciate and sympathize immensely with individuals who find themselves labeled as a result of inflated ideas and false accusations. The information age does not exist without the age of misinformation. And now that we're all pseudo-spies from repeated drunk deep creeps, paranoia and "proof" present problems.
I will suss out multiple alternative motives before I decide to label someone a fuckwad because:
1. I too am socially inept (but am more easily forgiven because tits)
2. If you want genuine friends or colleagues of the opposite sex, you cannot shit where you eat. And if that gender dynamic is the same for you as it is for me due to profession or preference-based pigeonholing, at some point you may be forced to watch someone shit where they are eating. Thankfully that has never happened to me, but I have seen Topher drink his own piss on more than two separate occasions.
The reality of being the minority in a circumstance is feeling like the minority in a circumstance. So if this is you, you better get a bit more comfortable with uncomfortable; because it's inevitable.
Do not confuse my attitude with ambivalence. Simply strategy. Since I do run in such circles, I've been forced to learn how to humanely kill unwanted attention without being castrating, even if said human is being a fuckwad.
"That's not fair."
Nope, not usually. Such is life. But you can't just complain; you have to cope until change comes.
And one of my coping mechanisms has been to openly present myself as someone that is prickly and generally adverse to interaction with strangers.
Both of which are true.
However this has not been working lately. I'm not sure if this is some sort of pheromone thing because I am currently on a geographically forced sexual hiatus or because the end of the summer is approaching and the knuckle draggers know females will be re-growing our pants soon, but do. not. want.
And this is not a warning of entitlement or ego but of genuine confusion. I am anxious and small and hyper-observant of energies around me like a strung out squirrel. Therefore you should approach me as such.
Observing from afar and naturally assuming I want nothing to do with you. But if I do want something from you, I'll make it fucking known. And like a squirrel, it's probably your food."
"Squirrels eat a lot of nuts ;)..."
Squirrels eat about 20% of the nuts they scavenge. If we're completing this parallel & the fact that the analogy requires a pair, that means that yes, 1 in 5 will be kept.
The rest become trees - firmly rooted in one position forever.
Sarah Silverman was right; she did get me into squirrels.
I have had an alarming amount of unsolicited/welcomed/respected attention directed my way as of late.
I'm unsure as to why. Yes, there was a general increase that coincided with my increase in public nudity, but both the levels of indecency and overall response tapered off months ago.
I suppose there's nothing I can do asides from attempt to be even more overtly opposed to 99% of human interaction (though that would begin to border on unhygenic). So here's a photo of my ankles:
And a story about how my tits have begun aging. Because they are.
I'm very confident in this as I have seen three different generations of women naked this week. The boobs of past, present and future; all in person and then subsequently magnified on various screens. Beyond that, I have an enormous amount of proof of my own decline over the last year.
"Make a smooth segue into mentioning this month marks one year of blogging"
Fuck you! It's 10am and there isn't enough instant coffee in the world to actually make intermittent fasting tolerable. Be grateful you aren't drooling and just make the arm tentacles express the brain gibberish.
Just wanted to leave you with some weird words as a reminder of what goes with the naked bendy. And a total lack of volume control.
This Year with Taylor's Tits
I told myself and others I started this effort for marketing purposes, which is entirely true. I am genuinely dead enough inside to aid others in exploiting myself and my body for my own gain because being female, exploitative attempts are going to happen to you regardless. So you may as well steer the shitty ship and capitalize.
There have essentially been two iterations of my body (because I am in my 20s. Funny how that works). I suppose 3 if you count the gooey skin bag phase, but we're talking about tits so lets not.
There have been the poorly documented but highly regrettable years I spent skipping 90% of my lectures, consuming melted cheese like a food group (intravenously had it been an option) & using the ramifications to increase my tip percentage at Hooters.
The yelling has been a life-long thing.
There's even a reverse angle on this argument with commentary for context:
And, like the rest of my attempts to be an adult that drinks moderately but slowly degrades into a medium-sized child that does not grasp self-control, this series ends when I find something to lean on.
And then there are the better documented and marginally less regrettable years I still spend consuming melted cheese like a food group, but have figured out how to channel a portion of the yelling into physical activities and make better attempts to control the ramifications.
And like any fitness journey, the tits did not survive. Their remnants remain, but the barely legal boobies above bit the dust like the bras that could not bind them.*
*I have had two bras rupture straight down the centre. Once while driving to get poutine and once cracking my back in grade 11 math. Rizzo was right to dub them "soup bowls".
And though I see a lot of naked ladies, I realized I hadn't seen one quite so young since it was me.
Thankfully there was tequila and this did not set in until I set off on my deep creep of my own tits.
Which has been completed and does not need to be served up on display. If you've made it this far, up to you whether you're willing to put in the work.
I don't purposely choose to live my life as one endless "that's what she said" moment; but I say a lot of shit and identify with that pronoun. So it really doesn't matter what I spit out - because that's what she said.