Doesn’t matter what you wear, just how you feel in it.
This is what 23 is like…
I lived that movie moment where I had to walk my friend to the inside of her apartment—I mean the whole shebang, grabbing keys, holding her steady, figuring out which key opens what door, etc.—and made sure she didn’t throw up on her nice rug or in her hair. She’s the greatest person I’ve met in this city, possibly my best friend now. I couldn’t leave her there even though she told me she was fine. I’m hoping her boyfriend won’t fault me for letting her sleep on the floor, but there was no way I could get her to the couch or the bed.
Nights like this, moments like that, I wonder if anyone would do the same for me. Or if I’d ever be cringing as I crawl into my home because I don’t want my boyfriend to see my shame. Or if I will ever in my life have someone at home waiting for me that isn’t a roommate.
It’s dangerous for me to be left with my thoughts after midnight. Cab took me home but my mind is definitely elsewhere.
No one is home, so as soon as I walked in I immediately stripped. Apparently 23-year-old me likes being naked now. This must be the whole growing into your own skin thing.
It also feels awesome to have things rub against the breasts. I’m not even ashamed to admit it.