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Self-objectification

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Pervy_Sage said:
Don't forget your cape and cone bra. Madonna would not like it if you did.
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I find I don't care about Madonna's opinion overly much. Besides, who needs a cone bra with breasts like mine? :rolleyes: ;)

sammyIammy said:
That sounds good any day!!
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Welllll I know what we're doing on your business trip! :D

Phawk360 said:
I completely understand your delemma between warm sheets and a cold gym.
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Presently it's a dilemma between warm sheets and cold everything else. egads.

draconus_infernus said:
Busy as hell this week, my dear. How about you?
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Last week was busy, this week is busy.. there may be a light at the end of the tunnel come January. In the mean time.. we can be each others moral support! :kiss:

purfecthost said:
What time's your flight? ;) lol
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I'll let you know as soon as I look into it :)
 
Hope you are managing to stay warm. Heard it is REALLY cold. Need any help?

EDIT: Oh to give that tug ;)
 
Is it wrong to view your lovely photos every morning, just to ensure everything 'works properly' if you catch my drift? :eek::eek:

:rose:
 
Brokenness

The brokenness of my heart is a literal thing.
It’s not romantic, emotional, or inspiring.
It’s clinical, cold, and impersonal.
You recognize this for what it is when you wake up to a circle of doctors peering down at you.
Their presence amplified by the electronic beeps in the background.
The blood pressure cuff that tightens to the point of pain every 15 minutes.
The IVs that have to find a new vein every 24 hours.
The cardiac leads that stick to your chest like overprotective electronic caregivers.
The circle of white coats announcing that they are specialists in hearts that fail.
Specialists in failure.
When that kind of doctor tells you you’re a “one in a million”, it’s not exactly a compliment.
They regard you as a challenge, an obstacle, a puzzle.
You’re research, publications, and tenure.
Since the act of breaking, I’ve disassociated all whimsical notions pertaining to my chest cavity.
The human heart is a pump.
It has four valves, four chambers, and is run by electrical current.
It cannot feel.
I know it cannot feel because the following morning the Ring Leader sliced open my jugular to find his way inside.
The sensation of someone removing pieces of your beating heart is provided by the surrounding viscera, not the heart itself.
That is the sensation of betrayal, quantified.
A betrayal of every childhood story, of every notion of butterflies, of every concept of morality.
This disassociation is furthered by the report that one day in the future they may elect to pry open your ribcage to replace your heart with someone else’s.
The obvious and unspoken truth being that a human heart can only be bestowed to you in the event of someone else’s death.
By the breaking of more hearts.

The brokenness of my heart is a literal thing.
 
theapproachingcurve said:
Brokenness

The brokenness of my heart is a literal thing.
It’s not romantic, emotional, or inspiring.
It’s clinical, cold, and impersonal.
You recognize this for what it is when you wake up to a circle of doctors peering down at you.
Their presence amplified by the electronic beeps in the background.
The blood pressure cuff that tightens to the point of pain every 15 minutes.
The IVs that have to find a new vein every 24 hours.
The cardiac leads that stick to your chest like overprotective electronic caregivers.
The circle of white coats announcing that they are specialists in hearts that fail.
Specialists in failure.
When that kind of doctor tells you you’re a “one in a million”, it’s not exactly a compliment.
They regard you as a challenge, an obstacle, a puzzle.
You’re research, publications, and tenure.
Since the act of breaking, I’ve disassociated all whimsical notions pertaining to my chest cavity.
The human heart is a pump.
It has four valves, four chambers, and is run by electrical current.
It cannot feel.
I know it cannot feel because the following morning the Ring Leader sliced open my jugular to find his way inside.
The sensation of someone removing pieces of your beating heart is provided by the surrounding viscera, not the heart itself.
That is the sensation of betrayal, quantified.
A betrayal of every childhood story, of every notion of butterflies, of every concept of morality.
This disassociation is furthered by the report that one day in the future they may elect to pry open your ribcage to replace your heart with someone else’s.
The obvious and unspoken truth being that a human heart can only be bestowed to you in the event of someone else’s death.
By the breaking of more hearts.

The brokenness of my heart is a literal thing.
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Hell, woman! I wish I could write like this! Masterful!
 
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