You’re invited

Once I wanted an excuse to invite my crush to my birthday, so I invited every single one of my Facebook contacts.



I just can’t get myself to wear a bra to a date. Maybe it’s after-hours exhibitionism, maybe it’s the scarring, skin-sucking strapless bras that pair with nice tops, maybe it’s the open vibe of my boobs hanging freely underneath my shirt: maybe I just want a boy who accepts me as I am.

confessions · happy · penis



So my boyfriend and I break up, and I start working out a lot to stay sane. And now I’m like, great, now I have abs, and there’s no one to look at them. Can I get a second opinion on if my perky spin butt is worth the chunky spin thighs?


I’m still in that self destructive phase where if someone offered me a chance to meet a stranger who would become the love of my life or a text from my ex stating that he wanted to see me, I’d choose the latter.


It’s starting to have been long enough since we broke up that if I died, it wouldn’t be immediately obvious to people to call you. I still can’t believe you don’t want to hang out anymore. I just want go home.


I didn’t have any warning. I still had soup in your freezer and eyeliner placed gently on the ground of your bathroom as I sprinted after you to brunch. I feel like I lost a home.