I just had therapy via FaceTime, sitting in bed, still in pajamas, with bedhead, no bra, and fuzzy socks, because America is amazing.
I won’t do it often, because I think my discomfort at being trapped in an office with a psyche ninja helps me share, but it’s a nice option to have.
I wore a new bra to work today and I keep getting distracted by my own boobs.
“Oh, hey! How’d y’all get up there?!”
It’s adorable how I just ordered this as if, even in its largest size, it will ever EVER even fit right, let alone function as a sports bra. #HeavyBoobs
My plans for today got canceled, so now I’m high on my freedom to sloth about and not be human again until Monday.
*glaring at bra drawer* Not today, Satan.
New rule: If my therapist really wants me to be “comfortable,” I have to be allowed to take off my bra. And have a glass of wine.
But I guess that’s how some porno movies start, so maybe that’s not what I’m going for.
Then AGAIN, I am pretty much never more comfortable than I am post-orgasm.
So. Ideal therapeutic session: slightly tipsy, bra-less, post-coital. *nod* I think I’ve found my business model.
Sometimes I worry I’ll never be a “real” writer until I can adequately describe how good it can feel for me to take off my bra at the end of a day.
There are days I don’t want anything other than myself or a man touching my boobs. This is one of those days. Bite my ass, bra.
Sometimes at the end of a bad day, taking off your bra is pretty much the greatest thing that ever happened.
Also beer. But the bra thing was pretty good.
I look forward to the level of self-assurance/not giving a fuck of the older woman I just saw. Thirty years ago, she likely had a chest larger than my D cup. And today, she embraced her inner Elsa and just let it go — strapless cotton sundress, no bra.
I’m not even hating. Bless your heart, honey, you’ve earned it.
Signs you’ve taken trampyness to the executive level: Walking around the office with a visible bra strap that matches your outfit. #WhoreCouture