My Thighs Touch: That just means they love each other, right? Won’t You Love Me Too?

Lately I’m consuming more sugar in the form of cookies and cake than one woman who lost a whole lot of weight should openly admit.  My thighs touch and I look down at my belly, skin covered in lightning bolt sized stretch marks and perfectly plump with Christmas treats. I  wonder how I got to a place where I’m ok having a FUPA. I can only surmise I’ve settled into “This is what it is and someone still bangs me once a month. Once a month is better than no times a month. Oh well.”  Now that I look at my period tracker, I realized it’s been exactly two months. As I wrote this line my brother passed by the dining room table and told me I look pretty. Maybe I should get out more often, once a month could turn to two times a month?

In recent years I made a promise to prove it to myself that I’m my own hero. I likely need to lower my standards and just go for “tan” or “currently has a beating heart.” And, although I want to be my own hero, admittedly, I also want to fall head over heels in love. More so than owning my own home, a washer/dryer, getting a driver's license, a car, having a career that makes me proud, and getting rid of my hotmail account - I want to know Mary J. Blige like Real Love. Does that not make me my own hero? Am I a non-feminist heroine, honest or both? Who the fuck knows? But riddle me this reader, who doesn’t want to know what it’s like to be loved and adored emotionally, sexually, spiritually and wholly in the eyes of another - tramp stamp and a jacked up past and present included? AND WITH THEIR TOUCHING THIGHS. Yeah, don’t lie to yourself. I know you do too. Isn’t the exchange of love beyond sexual fluids the ultimate goal in life? Soul bearing, I can’t breathe without you, you even give my butthole goosebumps kinda love?