Tag: bursting bubbles

I’m Fine (Never Mind the Trauma)

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

White figure bent over with pain dashes coming from its back on a green circle background. Image by 8thBox from Pixabay.A couple of weekends ago, I went to see Dad Shorts play at a bar in a town about 25-30 minutes away from where I live. I was dead set on going because I hadn’t missed one of their gigs and I wasn’t ready for this one to be the first. In order for me to do that, I needed to make sure I had my dad squared away.

As I’ve mentioned before, my dad has been having some health problems, namely lung cancer, COPD, and congestive heart failure. The lung cancer is under control. He’s finished his chemo and is on immunotherapy for maintenance. His COPD is controlled with medication and environmental manipulation. His congestive heart failure became an issue over the summer, but adjustments to his meds have it back under control. I’ve been his primary caregiver since this started, so I’ve gotten used to configuring my life around his health needs.

So, in my mind, if I was going to go to the Dad Shorts gig, I was going to need to get a sitter.

Okay, not a literal sitter. But, I wanted to make sure one of my neighbors or friends would be in town in case something happened. If he needed someone, I wanted him to be able to get a hold of someone who could get over to him in five or ten minutes rather than 25 or 30.

I explained this to my father and he instantly bristled at the idea. He then proceeded to point out that he hadn’t been having issues with his breathing lately. He’s been getting around better, not even using his cane in the house. My rebuttal was pointing out his penchant for doing yard work when I wasn’t home and how he’d fallen twice doing that. He understood my point about having someone closer by just in case and agreed not to do yard work while I was gone and agreed to take his cane, emergency inhaler, and phone with him if he did go outside for any reason. Just in case.

He also had a point, even if he didn’t directly articulate it.

It’s been a year as of the beginning of this month that my dad’s health problems began. It’s been a roller coaster of bad, badder, better, but I’m still acting like he’s at his worst. I’m still anticipating the shit to hit the fan at any moment. Going to this gig made me realize that even though I know things are grooving along pretty well, I’m still living in the moment of 3am wake ups for 911 calls, of ER visits and hospitalizations, of endless problem solving for pain and breathing problems. Things are better, but I haven’t stopped being ready.

I’ve said before that I didn’t think I’d fully processed everything that had been happening in my world since October 1st of 2024 and that weekend really slapped me in the face with it. I’ve been wading in the trauma for so long that I don’t even realize my shoes are wet anymore. It’s become my normal.

It’s not a good normal.

There’s nothing wrong with being prepared and being cautious, but being in a constant red alert is no way to live.

Think I better get around to processing and find a way to unclinch.

We both deserve better than this stress.

Apropos of Nothing

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Black and white photo of a puddle on pavement with several leaves floating on the surface.I do not mourn terrible people.

Call it a quirk cultivated from decades of lived experience.

It doesn’t matter their flavor of terrible. It doesn’t matter how they ultimately exited this mortal plane. I do not mourn them.

Now don’t get it twisted. Don’t confuse my lack of mourning for celebration. Apathy is not glee. Just because I’m not entirely sad to see someone’s exit doesn’t mean I rooted for their departure. Think of the Loki meme. “Yes, very sad. Anyway.” It’s a similar vibe.

I realize that this sort of attitude can lead to a lot of questions.

“Who are you to say someone is terrible?”

Well, I am me. And I get to decide who is terrible according to my criteria for terribleness. Just like everyone else does.

“What about that person’s family?”

What about them? Terrible people frequently have parents, siblings, partners, children, friends. That affords them no virtue. If anything, it provides them with their mourners. Do I feel bad for them to have lost someone dear to them? Eh. In the very vague, general sense of death sucks and it’s a lot of paperwork. That’s about it.

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead!”

That’s not a question. Also, I do not abide by the belief that an asshole never dies. If you don’t want to be spoken ill of in death, don’t be garbage in life. If accurately and factually recounting things a dead person said or did in their life is speaking ill of them, then your problem is not with me.

“Where is your empathy?”

In my pocket where I always keep it. I sprinkle it at my discretion. I also find it wasted on those who never developed their own sense of empathy during their life. Terrible people frequently fail to do this.

“What if it was a member of your family?”

Then folks would have to get in line to talk shit because my family canonizes no one. If you were terrible in life, then they’re going to put that in your eulogy, if they go to the funeral at all. Most of the time, it’s not even said out of disrespect. We all know how someone really was, and not saying it doesn’t change the truth. We’ll just go ahead and say it.

“What if it was you?”

Gonna be honest here. Being dead is probably going to be the bigger problem for me. Also, I’ll be dead, so I won’t really care. I have already accepted that there will be people who mourn me, people who are glad to see me go, people who celebrate my demise, and people who are entirely indifferent to the whole affair. I have no doubt that I am someone’s terrible person. Maybe I’m yours, right now, for writing this. Maybe I now fit your terrible person criteria.

That’s fine. What is it that they say? What other people think of me is none of my business. Well, that applies in death, too. What other people think of me after I’m gone is also none of my business.

I don’t expect you to mourn me if I should predecease you.

So, don’t expect me to mourn terrible people if they beat me to that finish line.

Because I won’t.

Sorry, That’s Not My Problem–Religious Edition

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Earlier this month I had a patron complain that we held a Meet the Candidates event for the mayoral candidates on Ash Wednesday, and with all due respect (and the respect due him was none because he opted to be a jackass in his complaint), that’s not my problem. Your religious observances are none of my concern.

Your religion is not my problem.

I feel like of all of the public-related things that are not my problem, this is the hardest one for people to fathom. Let me assure you that I respect the existence of your religion, I respect your right to your religion, I respect the requirements, restrictions, and obligations placed upon you by your religion. HOWEVER. Those requirements, restrictions, and obligations are not my problem. They do not apply to me. I am not of your religion.

For example, Judaism, Islam, and some Christian denominations prohibit the eating of pork. I respect that. I would never insist or trick those people into eating pork, and if I were feeding them, I would be mindful that whatever meal I was serving was either pork-free or had pork-free options. However, I’m still gonna eat me some pig. That restriction doesn’t apply to me. I do not belong to any of these faiths.

Like my complainer above. Ash Wednesday is his responsibility, not mine, and not the library’s.

I think it’s the Christians that tend to struggle with this concept the most. Capitalism co-opted a couple of their holidays (Christmas and Easter) to make some bank and now they have it in their heads that their religion should be exclusively catered to. Being the most popular religion in the US doesn’t help their egos, either. If anything, it only encourages them to scream persecution if they don’t get their way.

I’m not persecuting them. I’m not discriminating against them. I’m just not one of them. Their religion is not my problem.

But it seems to be the Christians that work the hardest to make their religion my problem. The “this is a Christian nation” crowd. The “bring back prayer in schools” crowd. The “my religion is the only religion and my god is the only god” crowd. They are fascinating in their disrespect as they swing Bible verses like cudgels to defend their own abhorrent behavior while claiming to love everyone in the name of Jesus. The expect everyone to honor their religion while dismissing and denigrating anyone else’s -or their lack thereof.

It’s just happenstance that Christianity became a major religion. In another timeline, they’d all be beating their Quarans instead of their Bibles, quoting the Islamic prophets instead of the Christian ones. “No, we wouldn’t!” Oh, but, you would. For those people, religion isn’t about faith or spirituality; it’s about power. It’s about their ability to control other people.

That’s the problem we have now. People using their God as justification for control. “The Bible says…” The Bible says a lot of things. The Bible says a lot of contradictory things. The Bible says a lot of things that they ignore for their own convenience (helping the poor, plucking your eyes out, do unto others, false idols, etc.). Ultimately, the Bible says a lot of things that ain’t got shit to do with me because I’m not a Christian. That’s not my handbook.

Your religion isn’t my problem.

Stop trying to make it one.

Unofficial NaNo

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

This year, NaNoWriMo is going to look different for me.

Yes, I still intend to write 50,000 words during the month of November. However, I’m not officially participating in NaNoWriMo.

Earlier this year, the folks at NaNoWriMo issued a statement in support of generative AI, which resulted in something of a controversy, as well it should. First of all, the whole point of NaNo is for people to sit down and write a 50,000 word novel. That’s it. It doesn’t matter if you consider yourself a writer. It doesn’t matter if everything you write is absolute garbage (it’s a first draft, so there’s a real good chance of this, actually). The point is that you put your ass in the chair and you write the words. What is the point of having generative AI do that for you? You’re not writing shit. You might as well not even participate. You’d be putting in the same amount of effort. Generative AI goes against the whole point of the entire purpose of NaNo. Having the folks at NaNoWriMo support it is like fucking for chastity here.

But I suppose if you’ve got a couple of AI companies as your sponsors, you’re going to say nice things because money is always in your best interest. Never mind that it comes from people who want to put writers out of business.

The NaNo folks also tried to say that generative AI was like a disability aid for writers, which writers with disabilities quickly shut down. AI isn’t what those writers use or need to write their stories. And if I may be so bold, being unwilling to write that great idea isn’t a disability. The worst writers among us could write better drivel than what generative AI has proven to come up with. You can achieve that dull, mediocrity on your own.

Then there’s the whole thing about how generative AI is based on theft (mining the works of other people without credit or compensation or permission), it costs people jobs, and it destroys the environment. No supporting clarification statements are going to undo that knowledge.

In the end, I cannot in good faith continue to support this organization that was once beneficial and that now has been corrupted by the greed and avarice of late capitalism. It’s difficult to exercise morals in this hellscape, but fuck it, I’ll die on this particular hill.

After twenty NaNos, I really don’t need the crutch of their daily word count graph and the reward of their little gifties in exchange for a donation anymore. It doesn’t need to be November for me to write 50,000 in thirty days anymore. If I’m going to be honest, I don’t even need to write 50,000 words in 30 days anymore. I’ve mastered the art of completing first drafts in a wide range of time spans. NaNo was just something to look forward to every year, a month of unbridled writing for the sake of writing, a guaranteed time to work on and/or complete the draft of a project.

And now it’s not.

So, I’ll make my own.

Schrodinger’s Fatphobe: Fashion Edition

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

“I’m all for body positivity, but…”

“I think people should wear what they want, but…”

I’ve heard or read these sorts of statements frequently, particularly in the warmer months of the year (gee, I wonder why), and let me tell you, the “but” is where folks show their ass. That “but” is guaranteed to be followed by some hateful, judgy shit that stinks up the entire statement. This Grade F manure isn’t restricted to just fat women, or fat folks. That “but” can be applied to folks of a certain age, gender presentation, sexuality, or color, too. But for the purpose of this post, I’m going to focus on my fat femme presenters because I am a fat femme presenter.

Folks really tend to feel some kind of way about the fashion of fat women. They’ve got a real hang-up when it comes to the way they adorn themselves. They’re all about body positivity, you know, think everyone should wear what they want, but if you’re fat, well, you shouldn’t wear that.

In my experience, “that” can be shorts, crop tops, tank tops, two-piece bathing suits, skirts, dresses that show any leg, arm, or cleavage, sandals, spandex, lycra, anything deemed too tight, anything that shows rolls, anything that shows too much skin.

Because they’re body positive and they believe everyone should wear what they want, but they don’t want to see you wear what you want. Could you please be comfortable and stylish and fat elsewhere? Thanks.

They say it with such authority, too! Like because my cellulite offends their delicate sensibilities, I shouldn’t wear shorts. Well, Sandra, it’s 90 degrees and the humidity has it feeling like 100. I’m afraid you’re going to have to endure my bat wings and fat rolls along with the heat wave.

“If you weigh over X amount, you shouldn’t wear…”

First of all, no two people wear their weight alike. 220 pounds on me looks a lot different than it does on my sister. (No, I don’t currently weigh 220 pounds and I have no idea what my sister weighs. I just remember that at one point in time, the two of us both weighed about 220 and no one would have guessed we weighed the same because of how we carried the weight.) Second of all, there aren’t weight limits on clothes. Nowhere on the tag does it say that I can’t wear yoga pants or a crop top because I exceed the maximum weight limit. The clothes are in my size, I’m going to wear them. That’s how clothing works.

And before someone trips over themselves to point out the people who wear clothes they think are too small, well, that’s the size they want to wear. I suggest you make peace with that for the sake of your blood pressure.

I’m not saying that I don’t judge people’s fashion choices. I admit to being a judgy person. I think I could place respectably in the Judgmental Olympics. However, I’m less likely to be too het up on judging the superficial. I may see somebody wearing something that I find questionable, and I may think to myself, “That is certainly a choice”, and I may question the motives behind the style choice, but as long as they’re comfortable, happy, and feeling good, rock on then. I don’t feel the need to blast my judgy opinion about some stranger’s garb on social media. I definitely don’t feel the need to say it to their face. Remember what I said about other people’s opinions not being my problem? Same goes for me. My opinions are not other people’s problem, either.

Now, if I know the person, if we’re friends or family, if I love them and we have the kind of relationship that allows me to voice my opinions, I may say, “Are you good with your cheeks hanging out of your shorts like that? It seems like an invitation to an awkward sunburn.” And if they’re like, “Yeah, I feel good. I look good. I want to wear these shorts,” then, baby, I will put the sunblock on their booty dimples myself. Because I am body positive. I’m positive you can dress your body the way you want (within legal limits, of course; the only cops we want involved in fashion belong to the Village People), even if it’s not what I would choose, and especially if it’s not what society would have you do.

No buts about it.

Sorry, That’s Not My Problem–Other People’s Opinions Edition

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Let’s talk about other people’s opinions.

Everybody has an opinion on something. The kids today, what that lady is wearing, the blathering of an ex-reality star, that guy’s hair, that other guy’s podcast, the casting choices in period shows on streaming services, the state of the neighbor’s yard, the money the other neighbor spent on a new truck, what that celebrity wore to that premier, and that royal marriage. Petty ass opinions on petty ass shit.

These opinions are not my problem.

They are not my problem because they are about nouns that do not affect me. Most of the time, they are about nouns that I don’t even have my own opinion on, or if I do have an opinion, it’s not worth the effort to share it because I care about that noun so little.

This could be a byproduct of working in customer service. Working with the public, you find yourself subjected to many unsolicited opinions on a wide variety of subjects. Not only are these opinions unsolicited, they’re frequently unrelated to the customer service task at hand. There you are, minding your business, helping a customer/patron, and the next thing you know they’re telling you all of their thoughts and feelings about Prince Harry. With all due respect Sir/Madam/As The Case Maybe, that you take umbridge with his royal behavior is not my problem. I have no idea why you’d think it would be or why you’re even telling me this. This hourly wage will only get you so much. And no worries, I will not get you started on his wife.

But I find myself this callous in my personal life as well. While I enjoy having conversations with friends and family and acquaintances, I’ve found that there are times that their opinions are not my problem. You think that woman is too old to be wearing that? I think that I don’t have the energy to concern myself with something that doesn’t affect me. Where do you get your vim and verve? Let’s talk about that instead. Maybe I’m no longer in the mood to rip strangers apart for insignificant, superficial things that do not impact my existence in the least. Maybe I’d rather roast the local politician’s insistence that libraries are indoctrinating children instead. Seems more productive.

In my advancing age, this has begun to encompass other people’s opinions about myself as well. I’ve always said you shouldn’t care what other people think, but I’d be a liar to say that I haven’t spent most of my existence vacillating between not caring and caring too much. But more often, I find those opinions that other folks might have of me falling into the “not my problem” category. Don’t like what I’m wearing? Avert your eyes. Don’t like how I live my life? Bankroll it and I’ll consider your feelings. Maybe.

I realize that this comes across as somewhat inconsiderate and misanthropic, but I’m not saying that I’m disregarding anyone’s opinions. I’m not saying that they’re wrong.

They’re not just my problem.

I Am an Intimidation Tactic

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I am the library witch.

I don’t know know when it happened, but sometime in the last almost five years of employment I became the library clerk to be feared.

People whisper not to cross me or I’ll hex them. I’m talked about like a punishment, a threat. “This is Christin. She’s our cudgel.” I am the threat of blunt force trauma in snazzy pants and funky tights and cute dresses. We joke about the ghosts of librarians past, but I’m the one that actually haunts the library. I skulk through the stacks, looking for children to scare and patrons to frighten. Coworkers to bully.

I am more feared than an ’80s slasher villain no matter their body count and how many times they come back from the dead.

I am a curse.

And I have no idea what to make of it. Because I’ve been this way for a long time. I can’t say forever because I wasn’t like this when I was a kid. I was shy and sensitive and incredibly weird. I admit that I’ve always been an angry little thing and prone to fighting and that did give me a little bit of a reputation. Turned out to stick with me even though the only person I fought in high school was my sister, who also had a bit of a reputation as someone not to cross. One of our friends whom we’d known since childhood once said that everyone wanted to be our friend because nobody wanted to be on our bad side.

Okay, maybe I have always been this way. It just had to mature along with me, refine itself into this raven that sits on my shoulder, alerting everyone to my potential.

I seem to haunt every place I go. If there’s a group dynamic, I unintentionally establish myself as the imminent danger.

I think it’s in part because I do not suffer fools. I come from a family of non-fool sufferers, which was rough when I was young and a fool because I was not suffered. Now I’m the one who is not doing any suffering. I do not have time for ignorant nonsense. Has customer service exacerbated this aspect of my personality? Absolutely. There’s a prevalence of fools in this line of work and I will not suffer a single one. That makes an impression. Even when I’m not trying to give that impression, it’s so infused in my aura that I still make that impression. More than once I’ve been told that when people first meet me they’re intimidated. While I appreciate that power, it’s not the default the vibe I’m going for.

Most people want to be liked. Life is easier when you’re liked. I don’t think about being liked. I tend to assume that I’m not liked. I’m tolerated. It’s better to be on my good side than my bad. “Don’t make Christin angry. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.” And you wouldn’t. I’m less than fun when I’m angry at you (I am hilarious, though, if I’m ranting about something that has nothing to do with you). So, when I find out that people actually like me, it confuses me. Surely, you jest. Did you miss the memo? The vibes? The aura? The warnings?

Or did you figure that befriending the monster would keep you safe? And once you did, you realized that she really isn’t that bad.

As long as you stay on my good side.

I Cannot Be in a Het Relationship

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

If you read the blog post title, you might be thinking, “Whoa, that’s pretty extreme.”

If you didn’t read the blog post title, I’ll repeat myself. I cannot be in a het relationship.

Now that you’ve had time to think, “Whoa, that’s pretty extreme,” allow me to explain. Just in case you’re that thoroughly invested in my non-existent love life.

As it has been well-established, I am bisexual. Or bi+. Or queer. Therefore, it is impossible for me to be in a het relationship.

This tends to confuse people. As a bisexual person, I am (unfortunately) attracted to men and have been in relationships with an unlucky few. From the outside, it looks like I’m in a het relationship. There’s a cis woman and a cis man (or a trans man) doing relationship things. Why would anyone suspect anything different? Hell, even the poor fella in the relationship would assume that it was a het relationship if he’s, ya know, cishet.

Hate to break it to you, my dude, but you’re in a queer relationship here. Relax! It doesn’t make you any less het. It also doesn’t make me any less bi.

I think this is one of the most baffling aspects of bisexuality (and probably pansexuality, but I don’t identify that way, so I won’t speak for them). Most people don’t seem to understand that our sexuality isn’t defined by our relationship status. We don’t suddenly stop being bi because we enter into a “het” relationship. Our Rainbow Mafia membership cards don’t get revoked because of other people’s straight perceptions. We do not choose sides. We’re on the same side we’ve always been on. The Bi Side.

Don’t think I’m picking on the fellas here. By the same logic, I cannot be in a lesbian relationship either. Sure, it’s still a queer relationship because we’re both queer, but it’s not a lesbian relationship because I’m not a lesbian. It’s not a lesbian relationship if the other woman is also bisexual. Or pansexual. Or trans. Yes, even if the trans woman identifies as a lesbian. See the above statement in which I cannot be in a lesbian relationship because I do not identify as a lesbian.

You may be wondering what the big deal is. Who cares if people think your relationship is het? Or lesbian? Well, I do. I care because it’s my relationship and it deserves to be respected in its definition. I realize that strangers glancing in the direction of me and my hypothetical partner can’t determine such details from a distance, but the people closer to us are more in the loop. They should know. They DO know. But when it comes to being in a relationship with a man, it’s easy for them to dismiss my queerness because of the straight optics. I don’t like being dismissed.

I also care because I don’t need or want a cishet male partner using his cishetness to dismiss my queerness. Your straight dick didn’t straighten me.

My bisexuality is an important part of my identity and it doesn’t go away if I happen to fall for a dude just because it makes you see straight.

This Is Where I Keep My Crazy

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I realized the other night that I’ve been keeping a journal for over twenty years.

I’ve probably talked about my journaling before, but I’m prone to repeat myself more often now that my brain is 95% song lyrics and movie quotes. So, I’m just going to talk about it again.

I remember attempting diaries as a kid, but never stuck with it. Probably because I was nine and didn’t have much of a life to write about and even though I was a writer, I thought diaries were strictly for real life escapades. As far as I was concerned, I was not doing any escapades worth writing about back then.

About six months after my oldest niece was born, I was gifted a journal. She’s twenty-two now. Anyway, it took me a couple of weeks to work up the courage to write my first entry. Once that seal was broken, though, I found it easier to write down my thoughts. But it would be years before I made it a daily habit.

Despite what my nine year old self thought, I’m still not using my journals strictly for my real life escapades, though the few escapades I do manage to have typically rate a mention.

My journals are where I keep my crazy.

My mind is a hellscape. It frequently gets too full. That one time I saw a therapist for three appointments before she got sick and I never rescheduled, she said that part of my problem is that I hold things in to the point that they overflow, and that retention was contributing heavily to the toxic state of my mind. So, I started putting the things that I couldn’t or didn’t want to talk about out loud into the pages of my journals. It helped. It got it out of my head and onto the page where I could see it and examine it from a safe distance. Poking about the words spewed from my brain has helped me a lot when it comes to figuring out how my defective grey matter works.

My roommate, who once had her privacy invaded thanks to a journal-reading incident, asked me how I can just leave my journal on my bedside table without worrying about someone reading it.

Simple.

If you read my journal, you get what you deserve.

People underestimate the shit that goes on in my head. I’m not just writing about annoying coworkers and petty grievances and people I find dreamy (though I do mention that sometimes). I’m not just jotting down my goals and to do lists and my dreams (though I do that, too).

This is where I keep my crazy. My rage. My self-harm thoughts. My go-to-jail thoughts. My delusions and illusions. My paranoia. My anxiety. My depression. My whacked out, what the fuck thoughts that would make even the strongest whimper and cringe. This shit is not for the faint of heart. It’s not even for the sure of heart.

If someone decides to go sneaking a peek at those pages, they’re going to end up scarred for life. They’re certainly never going to look at me the same way ever again. And it would be all their own fault.

I have every intention of destroying my journals before I die. Or leaving instructions with someone I trust to have them destroy them for me. There’s no goldmine in those pages, nothing publishable, nothing salvageable, nothing memorable. Nothing that needs to be remembered.

They’re just bits of my mind, anyway.

They should go with me to the grave.

What’s My Stretchmarks Rebrand?

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Remember when everyone started calling the stretchmarks gained in pregnancy “tiger stripes”? It was done in an effort to make child bearing folks feel better about the changes their body underwent while they were growing and birthing an entire human being. As a collective, we decided to change a flaw to a badge of honor. As well we should. Growing and birthing a person is kind of a big deal.

So, I have to ask…where’s my stretchmarks rebrand?

My first stretchmarks came from puberty, as did a lot of other people’s. Many of these faded marks on my hips I got as I entered my teens. These deep grooves on my breasts came from a late bloomer blossoming so fast that I went up multiple cup sizes in a year. What are these stretchmarks? Boob grooves? Growth charts? Puberty scars? Puberty is a pretty brutal time of life, anyway. Might as well show the stretchmarks as the warrior wounds they are.

And what about the stretchmarks I acquired through weight gain? Why should they be vilified? There are many tasty treats and lazy days behind some of those marks (a lot of depression, injury, and illness, too, but never mind the negative; we’re being positive here). What do we call those? Burrito bands? Cookie cracks? Buffet lines?

I ask these inane questions because stretchmarks are a mark of life. Most people have them. They are proof of growth during life. Why do they need a rebrand? Specifically, why are only one specific type of stretchmarks worthy of a rebrand?

As a society, we’re kind of hung up on exemptions. It’s okay to have stretchmarks as long as you’ve acquired them because of pregnancy. It’s okay to be fat as long as you’re fat a certain way (“curvy” with a tiny waist, flat stomach, and fat ass, also try not to be over a size 14) or you’re a “good” fatty because you’re actually healthy or you’re trying not to be fat. It’s okay to be old as long as you look younger than your age. It’s wild to think of how many of these sorts of societal standards have asterisks on them. Terms and conditions may apply.

In the long run, stretchmarks as a flaw is a bullshit concept. Pristine skin with no evidence of existence is yet another unattainable standard. As I said, many of us get marked in our early teens. Ruined before we begin, no chance at perfection. Of course, there’s no money to be made if we accept ourselves how we are, now is there? I’m not going to purchase a cream to fade my stretchmarks if they don’t bother me. There’s no means to keep us in our places either, so to speak. You can’t shame me for a flaw if I don’t have it, right? Can’t keep me small and insecure, can’t lower my value over a perceived defect if I don’t perceive it.

I’m going to take matters into my own hands. Rebrand my stretchmarks. Not because I think I need to or because I have to, but because I want to. I think it’ll be fun.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go learn to love my boob grooves and buffet lines.