having just broken the water pitcher

it's cool - i'm healing up pretty easy. i've spent a lot of these last 2-3 weeks on the back porch with a seltzer and a book or a screen or a friend. when i got my arms back i meandered in the garden, plucking suckers off the tomato vines and marveling at the volunteer ground cherry and listening to my audiobook on plants that seems so popular it keeps getting snatched out of my libby by other people's holds. i thought i'd feel something worse when the compression came off. like an o shit what have i done, but i haven't. at most a tiny bloom of sad recognition that some itty bitty bikinis just looked better with tits, the kind that never held them in the first place. slowing down this hard is the main struggle - but that'll pass too.

it's the night before I cut my tits off and I'm drawing myself in the mirror with my favorite kind of felt-tip, in a sketchbook i've had for ten years but basically only use for figure drawing. that part of white ferrari comes on. i don't think i gave myself quite enough alone time today

it's the night before I cut my tits off and I did a lot of ceremonies last month, but tonight I'm just drawing myself in the mirror. why don't I ever draw myself anymore? or take pictures of my own face? I have barely any documentation of last year's skullet.

it's the night before I cut my tits off and I'm drawing myself in the mirror and listening to a genre i can only describe as "ambient banjo. " the scented candle is lit and the room smells sharp like pine needles. at the base of each tit are a few faint scars - on one reading "THANK" on the other reading "YOU"

it's the night before I cut my tits off and I'm drawing myself in the mirror again and again, sometimes with the tits and sometimes without. sometimes with tattoos sometimes without

it's the night before i cut my tits off and i'm drawing myself in the mirror - one last one before the eternal worm devours them, i suppose

a day i survived, four years ago

my favorite thing about stumbling upon the isle of Lesbos on wplace is that all the drawing over there is so polite. very few lesbians even overlapping other lesbian's artwork. we are so polite and loving toward one another

remember when you were tiny and had no hair

most days i wanna scream soooo loud maybe while i'm biking to and from work + today instead of writing a paper due tomorrow i met a baby, had espresso afternoon in the sun in dc, made some bean thing and railed my gf horizontal on the bed so it didn't squeak loud enough to bother my partner. i made probably a g from tattoos yesterday, which is good business but i can't stop talking to people about the laborious process of transforming this thing into a co-op even when i know it's boring. i'll have a master's degree in december somehow, and not the faintest what to do with it. i'm watching pub ed docs about police surveillance and spot laura, my friend's boss, ex weather underground member, young and spry and talking about being raided. i don't think we (the domestic left) ever recovered; every year more stringent and hopeless than the last.

i didn't even realize that there is ALSO an upcoming fourth book in this series with no release date. these fucking contemporary fantasy authors are really set to make a gooner out of me.

shouldn't have given this website comments not because they are particularly hellish but bc reblogging means you gotta say it with your chest or not at all