I don’t know what’s even in my head anymore or why I think the things I do or what I like or want. Everything seems to be up in the air, occasionally landing arrow-side down to pierce my skull with some new whim that was not originally a part of my makeup.

To that end, for my own purposes at least—I’m not judging people, as usual; just describing my brain—I’ve never understood piercings. They wig me out, feel like… obvious sorta institutionalized rebellion, and I don’t get wanting to permanently harm one’s self like that.

But… like.

The thought has come to me more than once recently.

I think it’s since the boobs, honestly. They seem to have catalyzed a whole genre of thought that I don’t know how to manage, and only understand from the surface and at at distance. There’s an overwhelm of unreason.

Who am I becoming?

I guess we’ll find out, I dunno.