It’s like living in a hidden land inside of a colorful whirl of granites and sand. Everything is beautiful and everything is perfect until it’s not. There is an openness to put each and every pretty thought on hold and enter in the wretchedness that is the unfolding truths that come and go and sway you into doing the things you dread the most.
The broken pieces are deformed and small and deadly and barely there until they are. The small and insignificant slivers of bliss that hide between the cracks are corrosive and sunny and everything you need at any point of complete desperation.
Happiness is living in a pink house with rainbow-colored chairs and soft sandy beaches. It’s finding a cheap cover up and a slimming one piece. It’s listening to ska in ripped shorts while drinking too many bloody marys on a sunny afternoon.
This melodramatic and slightly neurotic lifestyle can make shopping for a swimwear more or less of a nightmare full of judgments and graphically similar to the changing room scene from White Chicks. I’m a struggling aquaholic with a tight budget and a wretched dose of anxiety. Finding a last-minute-good-looking-slim-fitting swimsuit at H&M was the significant dosage required to impede any fatal withdrawals.
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