Oh, these shackles of fame.

Last night I was in a store buying bananas and a cheesecake brownie, as one does. On my way out, a tall guy stopped me and said “hey!” and then had a conversation at me. He used to work where I work, and obviously knew me. We chatted for about about the company, our new mural, and then went our separate ways.

I have no idea who he was.

I feel super bad about that, because it feels so rude. The truth is, I don’t know most of the people at work. Yes, we’re spread out over three offices and 5 floors, I work solely with one department, I never go to social events .. but those are weak excuses. Is it possible to have imposter syndrome about yourself? I guess I’ve done a bunch of stuff company-wide that would make me stand out a little, but none of it is a huge deal. I know I stand out physically – every other person here is tall and willowy and effortlessly glamourous in that Anthropologie-catalogue kind of way, whereas I am short and squat and have blue hair – but that isn’t a good stand out, it’s a “hide in the corner and hope no one sees me” thing.

And okay, damnit, all you tall white hipster guys in the other offices look exactly the same.

But seriously. I feel terrible when people know me and I don’t know them, even it’s a case of mistaken identity (I’m sorry nice lady in Denny’s, I’m not who you think I am). It’s weird to be recognized, but weirder still to be known and not have a corresponding data link inside your brain.

I do have theories on this. The majority of my theories are based around smiling. I would never, ever suggest that people have to smile, or tell someone to smile if they’re not, but I do find it odd when someone has zero response to a friendly smile. I try to smile at everyone. Most of the time, they smile back. If someone smiles at me, they get a smile of varying degree in response, from a questioning half-smile to a balls-out grin. I may be too riddled with anxiety and social diseases to strike up a conversation with someone, but I will always smile at the people I pass. There are a lot of people (all women) at work who glare at me when I smile in greeting, or simply look away. I try to give them the benefit of the doubt – maybe they’re just as socially awkward as I am, and deal with it differently than I do – but it’s happened enough times that I have a membership list for the Unfriendly Blonde Squad in my head.

Where was I going with this? I actually don’t remember – I stepped away from writing this to get some really shitty news – but I think I had a point about smiling at people with blue hair while simultaneously having a large enough impact at work to leave an impression with people I don’t know.

Shit’s gettin’ weird.

Things that are currently making me want to simultaneously throw up and cry:

• JIRA
• Backseat troubleshooters
• Companies that respond to your info request, which asks you what type of communication you prefer, with a phone call
• This migraine I’ve had since midnight or so that I have to power through because JIRA
• My hopes and dreams
• That I know just enough to know what’s wrong, but lack the access and ability to fix it
• Okta
• Why did no one else care that Barb went missing
• Existential dread

i believe i can fly
but then jira

My lady parts hurt, so I wore pants to work.

When I got to the office, I was greeted with the spectacular sight of my coworkers all wearing kilts.

Today is Opposite Day, and it is amazing.

everything about this is the best ever.

Even after 15+ years of baring my breasts soul on the internet, it turns out I still have some secrets. That ain’t right, so let’s fix it.

Kimli’s Remaining Secrets

• I don’t like bananas, because I am irrationally afraid that they are full of spiders
• I am vain about my ankles (this may not be a secret, I think I’ve mentioned it before)
• I will not wear clothing with the following images:
  • Elephants
  • Pigs
  • Whales
  • Hippos
  • Food of any kind
• .. because I am afraid people will point at the fat girl wearing a picture of herself
• More and more frequently I have been craving water and will choose it over Diet Coke
• I used to avoid making politically-charged (even if they’re not) statements for fear of offending people, but I cannot stay silent when the world is so incredibly messed up. For what it’s worth, I believe with my very soul that #blacklivesmatter. I am an off-white ally for PoC, LGBTQ, Muslims, women, and any damn person or group struggling for the right to live a life free of fear, violence, hatred, discrimination, and misogyny.
• Sometimes I poop

gastowns

Buzzfeed has a lot of silly content, but I really love their Style articles in which a variety of people try out a new trend and report back on their findings. They’ve covered things like the “no makeup” look on men, multiple women styling the same skirt, one outfit on several body types, a plus-sized author wearing things she’d normally stay away from, Victoria’s Secret swimsuits on different bodies, and so many more fun, cute articles that focus on non-media-traditional body types and styles. I dig it. Whenever I come across a piece that I can actually relate to, I do a little dance and dive in.

Last week, they ran an article about bralettes, which are apparently trendy now. As someone with massive fucking titties, I automatically assumed that bralettes were just another frilly pretty thing I could never wear. Big boobs need big support, right? I haven’t been able to wear a bra without an adamantium underwire since the 5th grade. I’m not the only one who’s scoffed at the idea: two Buzzfeed writers with large breasts wore a variety of bralettes for a week, then shared their thoughts.

I’ll let you read their recap, but after I finished the article, I was curious: if THEY could wear bralettes with their large breasts, perhaps I could wear them too! Hopeful and with images of light, delicate, lacy underthings dancing in my head, I hauled out my credit card and ordered myself several different styles (including the strappy style from Torrid they tried in the article).

My order arrived yesterday, and I approached the bras with apprehension: they’re so small. How could these tiny things possibly give me enough chest support? Also, my shoulders are still sunburnt to hell, and all the straps looked to be load bearing. Getting these things on would be painful, in more ways than one. I persevered, though, then put on a dress to see what the bralette did to my boobs.

Oh dear.

This is what my boobs look like in this dress normally:

bra: cacique bold lace plunge bra

This particular dress shows a lot of boob, so I wear it often. It’s also comfortable and has pockets, so the epic cleavage is just a nice bonus.

Here’s that same dress, wearing a bralette:

bra: torrid strappy lace bralette

NO. NO NO NO NO NO. Maybe I’ve been wearing nothing but ridiculous plunge bras for far too long, but THIS WILL NOT DO. Instead of lovely globes of soft girl flesh, I’ve got some weird lumpy pancake thing going on here. Nothing about this is natural: when I am topless, my boobs are not sad mushy triangles. Also, there’s a nipple there. That’s weird. I never have nipples, and I don’t want to start now.

The other bralettes were just as bad. They feel okay on, the lack of steel scaffolding is nice, and they’re pretty. That’s where the good times end: on my body, they’re *awful*. I would never wear them in public for fear everyone is staring at the depressed lumps in my clothes. I shared the above pictures with friends, who all agreed with my original assessment and horror: NO. Not ever.

It’s not a total loss, though – I liked the strap detailing. I would totally wear the strappy bralette over my normal bras, and rock me some space hooker boobs.

I’m sad. I tried some boob science, and my findings were not what I hoped. It’s clear that certain types of large boobs can successfully pull off the bralette and look adorable while doing so, but apparently there’s a line somewhere in the sand: big boobs, yes. Ridiculous huge enormous boobs, lol no. These are not for you. Move along. There’s far too much to see here, and none of it is good.

i’ll always have the space hookers

• Ed’s birthday. Storm Crow Ale House. Critical Miss AND Critical Hit. Drunk!
• Astronautalis show in Seattle. 10th one! Maaaaaay have done additional damage to my foot while dancing my tits off. Oops.
• Excellent weekend in Seattle. Saw a play. With nudity! Bush AND dong. What a time to be alive.
• Obsessed (like, Rent-style obsessed) with Hamilton. Spent last week learning about American revolution history. Cross-referenced soundtrack with Trouble Hunters (Astronautalis song about the Battle of Trenton, which is something I apparently now know about). Need to bone up on my Canadian history to balance out all this knowledge.
• Ultrasound today. Heart exists, moves and stuff. Good?
• Forthcoming birthday weekend shaping up to be insane for reasons that have nothing to do with my birthday.
• Desire for drastic shake up has me in a funk. Compromises are being discussed.
• Lola needs an engine rebuild. No idea where I’m going to get it done or how much it’ll cost. Bummed out.
• Bought tickets to see the Book of Mormon in Vancouver in September with friends. Fun!
• Accidentally bought an Xbox One. Not sure what to play on it.
• Haven’t ruled out travel beyond October, but have started planning for the next two years out. Who needs to stay home? Not me.

Mostly content. Forget how to write in complete sentences. Tired of having a broken foot. Desperately need a haircut. Other than that, things are good.

It’s finally happened: I am tired of the internet.

I am trying REALLY HARD to be good. Seriously! I wear my stupid boot (which is a whole universe better than the stupid cast) all the time, except when I’m sleeping. The doctor* said “stay off your foot”, so I am – using my stupid crutches as much as possible, beseeching Ed to fetch me things, and just generally being prone and pathetic at all times. It is tiring.

Unfortunately, Ed’s out of town for the next few days, so I’m on my own. While I’m still wearing my stupid boot, I’ve set the crutches aside because I can’t carry things while using them, and I need my hands to feed the cats and myself and get Diet Coke and ice cubes. I’ve been carefully stumping about the house, trying very hard not to break myself any further for ulterior reasons.

Did I ever tell you about the last time I had to wear an aircast? I probably did, because I tell the internet everything – but to make a long story short, I gave myself a stress fracture in Dallas and had to wear an aircast to heal it up, which then caused a stress fracture in my other foot so I had to switch the boot for a while which re-fucked my other foot and so on. It was a fun time for all, what with my being constantly broken. Had we stayed in Alberta, I would have eventually had surgery to replace my broken bones with steel rods of foot justice, but we moved to BC and the new foot doctor fucked me up in a hundred shiny new ways instead.

The tiny bit of walking around yesterday with the aircast on my left foot made my right foot hurt in a horribly familiar way.

I have a bad feeling about this.

I’m still going to wear my boot, but I have to remember to wear a shoe on my right foot to balance me out a little. Hopefully, if I can keep this unsanitary game (the carpets hate me which is fine because I hate them) up for a while longer, my bones will be okay enough to handle New York in eight days. I’m arranging for the majority of our time there to be spent on tour buses, will wear my boot and rest when I need to, and when I get home I will sit in one spot and not move until September.

Yes I’m justifying this all in my head and I know it’s dumb, but I’ve got an Adventure planned and no mere broken bone will keep me from Adventure. I’ll just have to be careful, and dial it back a little – maybe skip the midnight run through Central Park. Maybe.

Tomorrow I am going to Leave the House. I’ve been cooped up in here for what feels like months, so I am going to shower and put on clothes and go to the office like a normal person and it’s going to be weird and exhausting but I’m starting to go all Gollum here, so it’s time.

Plus, there may or may not be three whole mails waiting for me.

*Every doctor I’ve seen at the Lions Gate Hospital has been this swarthy dreamboat soap opera person – what’s up with that. It’s weird. Stop being so handsome.