because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Possibly, I am drunk. Or horny. Or both.


There was a moment yesterday day when I had the most pertinent realisation.

I was in a classroom playing a verb game with an eight-year-old, whereby he yelled out doing words and I actioned them. As I jumped and I rolled and I lay and I sneezed, I suddenly grabbed on to my chest, took a deep breath and thought, wow. My tits are throbbing.

Thing is, if you google 'Why are my boobs sore?' (You know. IN THEORY. I most certainly have not spent the past twenty minutes doing such a thing.) the answers are menopause, pregnancy, or chat room dialogue after chat room dialogue of many other women with the same problem who don't have any answers, they just need to talk about their feelings.

Isn't that what blogging is for?

After the lesson, even the slightest wobble or jiggle was troublesome, and as I navigated the steps between the two levels of the building where I work I had to hold the puppies just to ease the aching. Which is great when the attractive 28 year-old student who executes male knitwear in a way never before seen on the masculine form exits his classroom and sees you touching yourself.

6.30 p.m. on a chilly November Tuesday in the children's department is not the time to make that move.

Although: any progress is good progress. Right?

RIGHT?

Okay, now I'm just distracted by cardigans and boobies and wait? WHAT? Children.

This just got awkward.

You can go now.

Seriously, I'll call you.

Just go.

I'm sorry.


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