All the Horrible Girliness: August 2005

Wednesday, August 31, 2005

TheBugStuff

From now on, you can see random pictures of The Bug here.

I've gone past the threshold. I always thought that, if I could just read enough on a subject, I'd get it. Understanding would occur.

So, since I found out I was pregnant, I've been reading. I read the week-by-week updates on the bug's development on iVillage; I read What To Expect and What To Eat When You're Expecting. I read dozens of baby and pregnancy magazines (to my credit, bags of these were given to me, free, by doctors and nurses and at every birth and child prep class). I read The Happiest Baby On The Block and Supernanny: How To Get The Best From Your Children, and now I'm reading The Baby Whisperer, and I think the Whispering lady is the final straw. I am the beast of burden, and my back is broken. Because when you read a lot about babies and parenting, you do not learn more. Instead, you reach a level where you've learned everything, and you apply it to the best of your pert little new-parent ability, and then the experts start to argue. And then their advice doesn't work. Maybe it works for every child they've come across, but apparently your child is a space alien, or some odd strain of baby, or straight from the cabbage patch, and you begin to wonder if you have a baby at all, or if you are really in a padded room somewhere, encased in a straightjacket, and this whole parenting thing is just the whacked movie playing in your head.

***

I don't know how it started. The War On Terror? A.D.D.? Columbine? But this British childcare fad has to stop. I mean, I love Supernanny. She's kind of hot, and you can tell she digs kids, but what's with the Nanny 911 bitches? Especially that one with the droopy eyes. They just stand around shaking their heads at the madness, forgetting that the shaking heads thing is our job. The viewing audience. Their job is to fix things, for fuck's sake.

When I was in Spain, I visited Benedorm, where many British people hang their bleachy white skin out in the sun to be burned during holiday, and their kids are just as fat and annoying as ours these days.

***

The Baby Whisperer is one such annoying British broad. You get into the book, initially, because this woman is said to be able to interpret baby cries. And the book starts out nicely enough. She's calling you luv and ducky and calling diapers nappies and that's very cute, very reassuring, very Mary Poppins. You plod through a few chapters of acronyms and advice that sounds pretty right but is starting to put you on edge just a tad, because those luvs are sounding the slightest bit self-righteous. Then, with relief, you get to the page with the chart on it that shows which cries mean what and it's worthwhile. Finally, the magic key!

It's after this chart that the Whisperer's true colors flood forth. The duckies fade and you go from feeling wary to downright violent toward this bitch. "You wouldn't like it if someone came along and threw your legs up over your head without asking, would you? Then why would you do that to your baby?" Yeah, honey, that would suck, but then it's a baby. I would use the fucking toilet. Then she's off on how music should be age-appropriate, which I guess means I should stop rocking him to sleep with Tori Amos. Then her sidebars get touchy, and now she's doing nothing but discounting all the other experts' advice. The pediatrician who wrote Happiest Baby On The Block notes often that in Bali, babies are held 100% of the time until they're over three months old, and they still grow up independent and strong. Her comeback? "Well, we aren't in Bali, now are we?"

If nothing else, isn't babyhood the great equalizer? Babies are babies. They don't know whether they're American or Balinese or Martian; they just know they're hungry or uncomfortable. They don't even know when they're tired, or, at least, they have no idea what to do about it when they are. Miss Whisper implies that if your kid falls asleep in your lap, you may as well forget about him moving out of the house. Ever.

***

It probably isn't The Whisperer's fault that I'm having this nervous breakdown. Her book was in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all. I've simply read too much. It's probably really a very nice book, and I'm sure that droopy-eyed nanny is doing all the solid work off-camera, but I'm tired of it all. I think it was Dr. Spock who said something like, "You know more than you think you know," and it's true. The bug's first couple of weeks were harder than they needed to be because I wasn't feeding him enough; my mother had told me that after five minutes, he wasn't really eating anymore and I was just being used as a pacifier, so off he went after five minutes, whether he was done or not. Then I'd walk the floor with him for two hours, mostly asleep and shoving a pacifier onto his tongue, when all he wanted was a little more to eat and we both would've slept.

***

In other news, I force myself not to post zillions of pictures here. I may set up another blog just for that purpose.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

He's five weeks old today. It's an annoying stage. He's in a growth spurt, so I'm feeling like an Arco that sells gas for .99 cents a gallon. Demand never ends. I swear there's no reason to wear a shirt. Plus, he's not all that interactive; he sleeps, he eats, he shits, and he bitches, and that's about it. Plus, I've taught him some bad habits, like falling asleep while he eats, and falling asleep on my lap or chest, and not sleeping in his bed, so now breaking him of these habits is going to take all kinds of energy that I don't have. Most of the time, I just give up.

There is just an overwhelming lot of stuff to do. Before I had him, I would force myself to get stuff done before noon, then I'd spend this blissful afternoon in a clean apartment with the bills paid and the tank full of gas. If he'd just give me an hour straight, I might be able to do something, but probably not. I am so knocked out that I don't remember most of my nights. Last night, I woke at 3:30 I think. I was in the living room and the bug was on my lap. The last thing I remembered was going to bed at midnight. I have no idea when he woke the second time, if he ate, how I got out there. It's damn surreal.

Then I go out to the store with him in the stroller, feeling good to be out and actually showered and dressed, and halfway there I realize my arm is still out of my shirt strap from the last feeding and maybe that's why people have been staring.

Six weeks is a kind of deadline. It's when the baby books start gently suggesting that you get your shit together, wean him off the 3 a.m. feeding, get him into his own crib, make him smile, have sex with your husband.

That last one is happening, goddammit. I don't care if the kid never smiles, but next week will be eight weeks since I've gotten some, and I'll be damned if I don't get laid.

***

I joined a new gym, which is really my old gym from when I used to live here five years ago. Bodies In Motion isn't a real boxing or kickboxing gym, not in a real sense. The classes are good if you know what you're doing, but 80% of the people in class don't. Watching them squat would make you cringe, Brendan. It's like knee injury city. Not to mention the actual bag work. The girls paw at the bag; the men flail, kind of like how your siblings might windmill toward you, saying, "I'm going to go like this, and if you get in the way, it isn't my fault." They all take themselves very seriously, with their wraps and their cheap gloves and, for some of the smaller girls, their very high kicks. The two teachers I've seen, both women, have been pretty pathetic. Their curriculum isn't bad, but they don't correct anyone, and they yell a lot, and I am willing to bet they've never fought.

There are some good teachers there. I remember them from before. They'd actually come around with the mitts at least. And there's a sad sparring class, where flat-footed guys wail on one another's headgear. When Mister Aran joins that class, there'll be hell to pay.

I'm sure real practitioners of yoga and pilates think their programs are ridiculous, too, and maybe real bike racers think that spinning is silly, so maybe I'm just being a freak. But it's gotten so I can't even feel superior, in class. I just feel sorry for everyone.

And I shouldn't kvetch. The workout is good. I've been doing alright, for having been out of the game for nine months. It took four days to recover from my first class. I was sore on the bottoms of my feet. I'd forgotten about so many muscles. And my left roundhouse, which I'd just been getting right when I got out of the game, is ass again.

***

I'm reading I'm Not The New Me by Wendy McClure. I read her website a couple years ago and laughed my ass off, and now her website sort of turned into a memoir and so I bought it. The site was about her weight loss, sort of. She's a funny broad. She's the reason I joined Weight Watchers in the first place. I would thank her, if she didn't feel so weird about getting email from strangers.

I remember being annoyed at her, because I sent her an email once. I can't remember what it said. She didn't respond. And I was nonplussed, because Tom Robbins and Chuck Palahniuk wrote me back, and they're much bigger and better than goddamn Wendy McClure. Now I think I was just being silly, simply because she is not as big as those guys, and the reason I like her is, she kind of sounds like me.

If you're interested in reading her stuff, she's here. Though, she's taken down all the good archives because of the book. Which I also recommend, but maybe only for chicks.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

He's so goddamn serious.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Usually, when the kid is done eating, he releases my breast and collapses into the Boppy pillow, his eyes closed, completely blissed out. He looks exactly like the kids in Trainspotting after they've injected themselves with heroin. This is my cue to put him down to sleep, which has been working beautifully for a couple of weeks now.

However, starting at about 3 AM this morning, he decided he didn't like this way of doing things anymore. Now, he just wants to sleep while still attached, and at no other time.

It's called cluster feeding, I think, when they want to suck for five minutes at a time, every thirty minutes, instead of allowing you to have any kind of life. I'm looking down at him now. He needs a bath and a change, a swaddling and a nap, but I know if I move him an iota he will wake, screaming, demanding another frou-frou French kind of meal. This must be what it's like for all-night Denny's waitresses when the tables are taken up with high school kids who nurse one bottomless cup of coffee for six hours and leave a thirty-cent tip.

If I were alone here, I'd do the bathing and changing and whatever, and just let him scream. But his grandparents live here, and when he screams, they come to find out why. And he likes to scream when they're around. Today he spent fifteen minutes staring contentedly at the mesh side of his playpen, listening to Nat King Cole, while I straightened up his room and sang along. The minute his grandmother came down the hall to see how things were going, he perked up and screamed. This happens all the time. My in-laws must think he does nothing but scream.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Blogger tells me this is my 101st post.

Way early this morning, after I wrote the previous entry, I looked back to my first entries. I was in such a better mood back then.

I think I'll put the bug in the stroller and get out of here. I need to pick up dinner anyhow. I'm not supposed to take him out much, but I'll keep the thingie closed.

***

I started this blog with the intention of writing about my WoW exploits, and I haven't even mentioned it in a long time.

FoH is still awesome, but I don't fit. I never did cap, and they don't have room in their raids, even for a sweet priest like I'm. For shits and giggles, Mr. Aran and I started characters on a PvP server. It's frustrating as fuck at first. Then you get used to dying. Then it gets better, because you sometimes win. We're just about at that point now. I assume the next step is: gankee becomes the ganker. I can't bring myself to gank, though. That damn Do-Unto-Others bullshit is really ingrained in the Sam Psyche.

I'm up because, at 3 a.m., the kid woke in a pool of his own pee. He was very disgusted and sad about the whole thing and, after the beating with sticks, needed a lot of soothing to get over the trauma. He eventually fell asleep to the sound of my belly growling. I like to think this is nice for him, something he remembers from being inside me. At any rate, it meant cereal time once he was down.

Halfway through the soothing bit, Mr. Aran came shuffling out, looking like a sleepwalker, pulling off his necklace. With the kid's tiny face so near me, and my husband in his boxers a few feet away, there was almost too much beauty in the room to breathe. It was like someone had sprayed on way too much perfume.

Mr. Aran was up, though, because his back hurts. He has an old injury from his college kickboxing days, a herniation, that acts up sometimes and can be completely debilitating. For the last two weeks, he's done a lot of bending and lifting the kid, and that seems to have been enough.

He isn't complaining, or even asking for help like he used to. I have a hard time standing aside and watching this. Doing something makes me feel better, even if it does nothing for him. All he wants to do is sit in his stiff-backed chair and play his PvP hunter awhile, forget about the scary fragile pain, but I have to cluck at him about massage and ice packs and sleep.

Soon, the sun will rise. And that will be nice.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

If I sound serene and in control these days, it is only because I can't write during the nighttime feedings.

Half the time, I don't know if he's doing his talking-in-his-sleep fuss or his real-awake fuss, so I have to sit at the edge of the bed, listening. If it's a sleep fuss, I have to try to sleep again, and as soon as I manage that, he'll do it again and I'll be up again.

If it's an awake fuss, I stumble out, twisting my hair up so he won't pull it. I will admit to a second or two of feeling very sorry for myself at this time.

He freaks all throughout his diaper change. I hold the diaper over his peen as long as I possibly can, I swear, but he chooses the magical moment when he is all wiped up and clean and the diapers are being switched to pee all over himself, me, and creation. He is strangely serene when he does this. Then he realizes he's wet, and cold from the wet, and he looks at me as if I'VE peed on him: "You slut; what in my personal ad made you think I was into golden showers?"

The clean up and costume change that follows this is accompanied by his loudest howls. The neighbors must think I'm beating him with a stick. In my nicest voice, I tell him he's horribly abused and I'll be calling Child Protective Services presently so he can be taken away from his cruel mother.

We proceed to the living room, where I do all my nighttime feedings. I'm trying to get my modesty back, but it's hard when I fall asleep at four in the morning, breasts to the wind, sitting up on the couch, and only wake at six when my in-laws go to the kitchen. They try to have breakfast and politely ignore my boobs, but it must not be all that appetizing.

My dad bought us a huge sage green rocker/recliner chair that was delivered today. You don't really sit in it. Your whole body melts into it. There is no way I will be able to stay awake in that thing. I'll end up at the dining room table.

The other night, I woke up on the couch because my head fell back and slammed against the wall. It didn't hurt so much, but it was loud.

A couple hours later, a little after 5 a.m., something hit the side of the building. Like a really big truck. That's what it sounded like, anyhow. The whole place shook and there was a huge noise. Then it was over. The kid didn't flinch, but I was suddenly awake. I looked left and right. I didn't know whether I should investigate, or if it had been all in my head. These days, it could have been.

I stood up, went to my bedroom. Mr. Aran was awake. I asked what the noise was, and he said it was a sonic boom. That's when I remembered the space shuttle was supposed to be landing nearby at 5:15 a.m. I got all excited. This whole time, the kid is still nursing. When he has a good latch, I'm pretty sure I could let go of him, and he would just hang there from my nipple.

So we all went to the living room and turned on the TV, and watched the shuttle land, and I explained things to the kid, who could not have cared less but listened well.

When he falls asleep nursing, he looks vulnerable, completely blissed out and perfect, even with his shedding lizard skin.

Sometimes, he cries awhile after he's done eating. When I finally get him down, though, I'm not done. I drink a little water to stimulate milk production, rub lanolin on my nipples to keep them from cracking and bleeding, straighten up my bra and insert the nursing pads, take down my hair. If it's late in the night, I'll have cereal. I go to the bathroom, which is still a bit of a process. I go to bed and fold myself into the three square inches of space my husband has left for me on the bed. Sometimes, he is nice enough to leave me a pillow.

If I am unlucky, I'll have forty-five minutes or so until the fussing starts again. If I'm lucky, like last night, I'll get two hours.

Like any other ordeal, thinking about it is much worse than actually living through it.

If he's falling asleep, I will sometimes tilt my head, bring his face to mine, and kiss him on the lopsided lips, something I have only ever done before to lovers.

***

His skin is peeling all over. He is shedding the skin he needed inside of me. "He doesn't need lotion," says my mother. "Think about it: he was underwater for nine months."

***

All over my apartment is furniture badly made. Dressers with drawers that must be shoved shut, a bed frame with missing screws, a changing table with a base that had to be cut to fit with my pocket knife. I can't put together Ikea furniture but I made a whole person. And now I'm expected to feed it exclusively from my body, and pat the burps out, and keep it clean, and safe enough that it survives into its adulthood.

***

Today we listened to Beatles and Simon & Garfunkel.

Good days make for bad blogs

He only woke me twice last night, and went down easy. Today we figured out the front carrier. I did laundry. I didn't binge out. Yesterday I binged out because I got a jury summons in the mail. These things stress me. Los Angeles is a scary place to have jury duty. Just getting to the place is a nightmare. Then they lose your paperwork and all is a horrible mess and the place is crawling with old people and smelly people. Then, in six months, you get another summons.

After my binge, I felt good enough to look at the summons, though, and it was for Orange County. Having moved to L.A. County, I'm automatically excused. Then I saw the little box that says I'm also excused if I'm another person's primary care provider. Yay for new baby! So the L.A. summons can come if it wants to; I have a kid now.

One large piece strawberry pie and one Klondike bar wasted.

***

Routine saves the day, as in all other traumatic situations. Predictability is the enemy of crisis.

Monday, August 08, 2005

My dad's at the airport right now, boarding a plane for Denver after visiting for five days. I learned a few things about my dad over the last few days.

One: He is the most stressed out person I know.

I knew he had issues with anxiety and temper, but I didn't understand the extent to which it could manifest. He is scared when outside his home environment. He freaks out in traffic. No problem, however small, is simply dealt with and made into history: it must be churned over in his mind, bitched about, and then vomited up in discussion for days afterward. The fact that he took the freeway going the wrong direction today to return the car meant he called me to tell the tale immediately upon reaching the airport and this story will be rehashed, with rolling eyes, gritted teeth and flailing arms, to anyone who will listen over the next month.

Two: He is racist and rude.

Constantly with the racist jokes, which don't even begin to be funny. Then he turns around and flirts with the Latina motel maids in his high school Spanish. Strange. He tips horribly low. His mother, who visited with him, is directly rude to servers at restaurants, to the point where Mr. Aran and I wanted to hide under the table in shame. Then she chews with her mouth open, does her gurgling smoker's laugh-cough, chunks of her dinner flying... I digress.

Three: He knows nothing about raising babies.

This was the big shocker. My dad can barely hold an infant. When he does, he seems uncomfortable and hands him over as soon as he can find an excuse to do so. He thinks the kid and I can just traipse all over God's creation shopping or sightseeing in the ninety degree weather, a week and a half out the chute. If I fall asleep over lunch, he says I should really get on the anti-anxiety medication, instead of suggesting that maybe I go home and take a nap. He was annoyed thoroughly by my napping. After a couple of days, I had to be rude and give him no choices. I dropped him off at his motel and told him I'd call when I was rested. Boy, did that cook him.

My ma sheltered him, is the problem. He never understood that she threw up after making his breakfast every day during her first trimester because of his love of bacon. He was never alone with my brother and I until I was two and a half and my brother was a few months old. After two hours, my mother returned to find him outside in the garden, freaking out. My brother had been crying the whole time. My dad had to get away from us.

***

I was more interesting before, when I was angry. Now I'm too tired and scared to be angry.

***

From "Two Stories About Emma," a short story by Margaret Atwood:

"I'm told the fearlessness goes away when these women have babies. Then they become cowards, like the rest of us."

***

I am such a delicious mess! Every shirt and bra stained with my yellow milk which, Mr. Aran reports, tastes slightly sweet. Sometimes I make too much and the kid can't get a good latch, so instead, he rubs my nipple all over his face and hands, like some freak, balding fetishist. I have to attack with the burp rag, and try again, the whole time telling him to be patient.

His sucking has gotten stronger. When he gets his latch, it hurts so much, momma. I suck in air, hard.

***

Today I go to the doctor to explain that I'm not going to kill anyone, that my anxiety stems not just from hormones and sleeplessness but from having been uprooted from my home near the ocean and cute little job and friends and gym and hell, let's include my abs in that list. The skin is getting tighter, but it still feels, like Anne Lamott said, like a waterbed mattress covered in flannel.

Last night I did five situps.

***

I went back to Weight Watchers after a mostly sleepless night, on Saturday morning, at seven a.m. I'd cried through much of the last several hours, begging God and the kid and whoever would listen to give me just one hour, just one little hour, of sleep. I did this until I was too tired to cry or beg anymore. After that, I know I fed and changed and soothed the kid, but I don't remember it. I fell asleep many times with him in my lap, then I'd wake up with his whole face in my belly and panic, knowing I'd suffocated him. I'd yank him away, he'd do one of his multi-tiered sighs, and I'd fall back asleep on accident.

The air was good, at seven a.m. People were out with their dogs. It's a five minute walk from my apartment to the Weight Watchers. The leader there is a badly-dyed blonde gay boy, very serious but flaming, which confuses me. I weighed in twenty-five pounds lighter than I'd been eleven days before.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

It finally came to my attention this morning that something was very wrong with me and I needed help. I have no appetite, I can't sleep, and when I do somehow fall asleep, I have horrible nightmares. I've been obsessing about death. I am fearful all day. I cry every minute someone isn't watching.

So, I called the doctor. He was on vacation, so another doctor recommended Zoloft, but only after I went through the humiliating process of explaining my symptoms to the nurse. When I told her about the nightmares, she had to ask what they were about, and I tried to get out of telling her. When I did tell, I cried all over the place. After that, she treated me very gently, as if I might jump out the window at any time.

Screw Tom Cruise, I figured. I'm going on Zoloft. Anything to get out of the crazy cycle I am in. I'm usually dead-set against these drugs but I go through times when I am completely unable to function.

***

In the car on the way to pick up my Zoloft, I thought of Anne Lamott. She raised her boy pretty much on her own, with help only from her great group of friends and a few relatives, with very little money. I have read her book, "Operating Instructions, A Journal of my Son's First Year," three times. She's funny. Part of the reason I am able to be honest in my writing is Anne Lamott being able to write in that book that, during her son's bad colic, she sometimes wanted to slam him against the wall, the way they cure an octopus on the dock. She brings out this beautiful humanity and dares you to challenge its truth.

So. She has a box she calls "God's In-Box" and when things get too out of control, she writes down her problem on a piece of paper and slips it into the box. Then she lets it go, more or less.

In the car, I told God I was putting this shit into his in-box. I asked for help.

Whether you believe in God or not, it makes sense to let go of your control issues when they get out of whack, like mine have. Especially when you're obsessing about death, something you can never control. You can drive yourself batty worrying about death. It's like a drug.

When I got to the drug store, I got a call from the pediatrician's nurse. She said it was okay to take the Zoloft, that I in fact should take the Zoloft, but I couldn't breastfeed.

If I hadn't had that small talk with God in the car, I would have put the kid on formula and taken my Zoloft. Instead, I told the nurse that I would tough out the depression, that I would try very hard to make it without the drugs, because breast milk is the best thing for my son.

I may take the Zoloft tomorrow. But for today, I will just leave it in the in-box and see what other options come up.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

I can feel it coming now. It starts in the late afternoon and escalates until total breakdown at around 8:00 pm. Strangely enough, mornings are my best time. Things look new, and I've spent all this quiet time with my boy throughout the night.

Every night is its own animal. There is not yet any pattern.

He's changing already. He is more alert. He's losing his hair on top. Soon the gorilla hair on his shoulders and back will go.

He makes grunting sounds like a dinosaur. I call him Chupa because of the way he sounds when nursing and munching on his pacifier. Or I call him Bug, which my mom called my brother. I don't know. It seems to fit.

I had lunch with Mr. Aran today. It was so good. Not lunch, which tasted delicious but was ruined by my lack of appetite, but my husband. Just being near him, out with him. He is so good.

Monday, August 01, 2005

It is unspeakably great to have someone to whom I can hand the baby sometimes. Half of having a newborn is learning to do everything with one hand. My inlaws are the reason I can type this, now. I time my bathroom breaks around their presence.

Still, it's difficult. Most of the time, they don't bother with English, which I understand. I'm the only one here who doesn't speak Tagalog, so I feel it's my responsibility to learn, and they should feel comfortable enough to speak whatever language they choose in their own home. It's still hard. I hide in my bedroom most of the time they're here, while they pass around the baby and chatter. Mr. Aran will occasionally update me on the politics of the house and what's being said and who's feeling unwell and who's being teased.

My mother-in-law tends to panic, so my father-in-law does the lion's share of walking, cooing, and singing to the baby. It still bugs me the way he and the cousin deal with his crying. If I'm changing him, and he cries, which he does because he's a conservative kind of guy and doesn't like his peen out in the wind, people come running. What's wrong! What's wrong! I get the vague feeling that they think I've broken him, in their absence. And when they're holding him, and he's fussy, they go Okay! Okay! Okay! Okay! or BeeBeeBeeBeeBee! in this panicked way.

My mother-in-law assumes, I suppose, that I'll be going back to work in a couple of months. She mentioned it while I was pregnant and it has irked me ever since. She has this very idyllic version of motherhood that seems to have much to do with being a virgin and having a kid you don't hear about again until he's twelve, and then again when he's thirty and, you know, the Son of God. She had four kids but she never saw much of them and her version of them is pretty idyllic, too. In her family, everyone prayed the daily rosary together and went to mass on Sundays, but the only one who was into it was her. So I get the feeling that she thinks babies should be all, No Crying He Makes, and when he isn't, she thinks something is wrong.

I guess I should be talking to the baby more. I know it's stimulating for him and stuff. But I don't really know what to say. I'm pretty quiet with him, except when he's having trouble getting his latch on, and then I just encourage him the best way I know how. Last night, I told him the story of him, or some of it, how Mr. Aran and I decided to try to have a baby and how bam, I got pregnant, and where I think I conceived, and how we were fighting a lot at the time. We had to go through some sad, tough shit before we were ready for this little bug, but we went through it and then I found out I was pregnant. So I told him about that, and then about seeing him on ultrasound at six and twenty weeks. He didn't seem all that interested.

He isn't interested in anything, yet. Except maybe my nipples, when he's hungry, and that's more like a heroin addict jonesing. He freaks out when he can't get his latch.

How am I supposed to be into someone who has absolutely no interests, except my breasts? On the other hand, it's nice, for once, to be wanted for my tits. It hasn't happened before.

All the Horrible Girliness