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.

Wonder Woman’s gonna wonder who my boobs even think they’re kidding.

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


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.

“It’s like a booby zoo.”

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.

Conceal. Don’t feel.

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.