CHARLOTTE

So, there I was, minding my own beeswax, when this dude comes up to me, right? He's got this vibe like he just stepped out of a GQ photoshoot or something, asking if he can do this quick interview with me for a magazine. Oh, what’s it called again? The Urban Lens or some other fancy-schmancy name that seems a bit overdone. He's all serious, saying it's for a piece on what the average person thinks about gender equality. And I'm like, Average person? Buddy, if you're looking for average, I'm pretty sure I saw a guy talking to a pigeon back there. Might be more your speed. No offense to pigeons.

And let's not even start on his look – gelled black hair so shiny you could see your reflection, and that camera around his neck. The thing looked like it cost more than my rent, but who am I kidding? It's probably one of those knock-offs that says Cannon instead of Canon. He looked like a pimp. Or at least gave me flashbacks to Frank. And I wonder what’s worse. Frank had the whole aspiring photographer act down, minus the talent. So, seeing Mr. Fashionista Photographer here? Yeah, not exactly a trust-building moment.

I'm standing there, trying not to roll my eyes into another dimension, and I just go, "Yeah, no thanks, dude. I'm not really feeling like being today's voice of the people." Left him standing there, all confused with his too-expensive-to-be-real camera. I mean, come on. A series on genderism in The Urban Lens? Please. That magazine's about as real as Frank's photography career. Walking away, I couldn't help but chuckle. Me, average. That's a good one. Next thing you know, they'll be asking me about my stance on world peace. Now that, I'd actually read.

Chatting about Frank? Heck, for all I know, he could be on Mars. Haven't clapped eyes on him since I gave him the boot from our pad. Did it the classic way – you know, gathered all his earthly possessions while he was off at his so-called job (if you could even call it that) and dumped them right outside our front door. It was chucking it down with rain, and I knew his gear would be soaked through by the time he got back. Did I care? Not a jot. Oh, and I added a little personal touch – took a boxcutter to his prized sports bag. Yeah, that one he loved more than life itself. Sliced right through the bottom. So, when he went to pick it up, all his snazzy trousers – the ones with those ridiculous designer labels that scream I'm trying too hard – would just tumble out. And tumble they did.

What followed was the predictable circus of him begging, buttering me up with compliments, then flipping to threats when he realized his charm offensive was bombing. His futile efforts to unlock the door with a key that, surprise, didn't work anymore, were just the cherry on top. Eventually, he slunk off into the night, not even bothering to look back. And that was the end of the Frank saga.

Oh yeah, the Frank saga. Harking back on it, the whole debacle was just another chapter in what I like to call my Encyclopedia of Almosts. I seem to have this uncanny knack for turning golden opportunities into comedy sketches. It's like, if there's a chance to mess things up royally, I'm first in line with a brass band and confetti cannon.

There was that museum job fiasco not long ago. The kind of gig that's not just another notch on the resume, but a full-blown, career-defining moment. This was the big time, the sort of position where you're not just clocking in—you're contributing to culture, curating history. The sort where they trust you with the fancy pens, the ones so nice they spend their lives in velvet-lined boxes because it feels almost sacrilegious to use them for mere mortal tasks. So, me being me, I decided this called for a celebration. Because why wait for the actual victory when you can toast to the possibility of success, right? It's like preemptive cheering; get the party started before the game's even won. Classic me move.

Fast forward to the night before D-Day. And there I am, living it up, clinking glasses, and soaking in the euphoria of what I'm convinced is my soon-to-be reality. The night's a blur of optimism and, let's be honest, a bit too much cheap champagne. Cue the morning after. I wake up feeling like I've gone ten rounds with a heavyweight, and my alarm clock is playing the role of the referee counting me out. My voice is a raspy mess, a charming blend of late-night karaoke and dehydration, making me sound like I've been on a week-long desert trek with nothing but sand for company. Appearance-wise? Let's just say the phrase hot mess would be putting it mildly. My hair's rebelling in ways I haven’t thought possible, sticking out at various angles. My eyes were sporting the latest in designer bags—no, not the cute kind you flaunt, the kind that scream I haven't slept in a century. And my outfit, oh, my outfit. It looked like I'd dressed in a whirlwind, with pieces that I swear were conspiring against me, determined to sabotage any shred of professionalism I might have mustered.

Strolling into that museum, I was the embodiment of the cautionary tale "This, folks, is what counting your chickens too early looks like." A walking, barely talking reminder that maybe, just maybe, celebrating your successes before they actually happen isn't the brightest idea. Stellar first impression? More like a crash landing. But hey, if there's one thing I'm good at, it's making an entrance—or in this case, a crash site.

Ha ha, yeah, you know about that famous cooking class event, don’t you? No? Well, decided to expand my culinary horizons beyond microwave meals. The instructor's like, Today, we're making soufflé. And I'm thinking, Great, I excel at making things rise—eyebrows, suspicions, you name it. Except soufflés are supposed to rise, aren't they? Mine just sat there, sulking in its dish like a moody teenager. Ended up being less culinary masterpiece and more why this woman should never be allowed near an oven.

Any news from the dating scene? Not that I know of. A dire chapter indeed. I've got this special ability, right? Like a superpower, but instead of saving the world, I can transform a totally chill date night into the kind of cringe-fest you'd expect from a low-budget sitcom. The kind where you're watching through your fingers because it's just that awkward. Case in point: this one time with Derek. Yeah, Derek, the guy who looked like he stepped out of an Abercrombie catalogue, all charm and no clue what he was in for. We're at this cozy little Italian place, candles flickering, the whole nine yards. Conversation's flowing like cheap wine, and I'm thinking, Hey, maybe I won't be the punchline tonight. But nope, the universe has a sense of humor, and apparently, it's written by a team of writers on their third coffee break. So, there I am, trying to tell this hilarious story about a vacation gone wrong, and out it comes: "And then Kevin—" Bam, full stop. Record scratch moment. Kevin. As in Kevin-the-Ex. Not just any ex, though. We're talking about the Voldemort of exes. The guy's name is basically a curse in my friend group, uttered only with a mix of horror and disdain. And here I am, dropping his name like it's a casual piece of conversation. Derek's face is a masterpiece of confusion and slowly dawning horror. And who could blame him? Me? I'm mentally awarding myself the gold medal in the Relationship Sabotage Olympics. Because, let's face it, if screwing up potential love stories was a competitive sport, I'd be the reigning champ.

That's just a sneak peek into my dating dossier. A collection of moments so beautifully botched, you'd think I was doing it on purpose. But hey, at least it's never dull, right? If my love life were a TV show, I'd have viewers on the edge of their seats, week after week, wondering, What spectacular disaster will she manage next?

So yeah, the Frank situation. Just another day at the office for me. It's like I'm the CEO of Bungling Inc., where every day is a new adventure in what not to do. But you've got to laugh, right? Otherwise, you'd never stop crying. At this point, my life's a stand-up routine, and I'm just here for the ride. In a philosophical sense, one might ponder the existential mechanics that govern such a pattern of behavior. It's as if I stand at the helm of my own ship, navigating through the vast ocean of life's possibilities, only to steer away at the critical juncture of every promising horizon. This peculiar dance with destiny, where I perpetually seem to step on the toes of my own success, has been a recurring theme. So, the great book of missed opportunities chronicles my journey. It’s almost an exploration of the human condition itself, a reflection on how the fear of failure, the specter of regret, and the allure of the path not taken shape our destinies in ways that are both profound and, at times, profoundly sad. Yet, in this reflection, there lies a glimmer of hope—a recognition that awareness of past follies can illuminate the path towards a future where chances are not merely presented but embraced with open arms and an open heart.

Whoa, never pegged myself for someone who could dive deep into philosophy and self-reflection like that.

You ask for my plans for today? Nothing much. There’s a hangout sesh with Cassie on the books. Ah, right, you haven't had the Cassie experience yet. She's this live wire of awesome I met recently. We crossed paths in art class a few weeks ago, and it's like we've been thick as thieves ever since. Cassie's got this talent with a paintbrush that's nothing short of jaw-dropping. As if she whispers to the canvas, and these life-like scenes just spill out. Watching her work is like getting a front-row seat to magic happening in real time. She's got this way of blending colors that you'd think they'd start talking if you listened hard enough. And her subjects, oh man, they've got more emotion in them than a soap opera marathon.

Now, not to make it weird or anything, but you can't help but notice Cassie's formidable tits. Mother Nature has truly decided to get extra generous in the chest department. But here's the kicker - Cassie's utterly clueless about the stir they cause. Or, if she does know, she's playing it cool. It's all paint splatters and art talk with her, but yeah, she's definitely got this presence that's hard to ignore.

So, yep, that's my afternoon sorted. Can't wait.

Right around the corner, there's this Subway, practically shouting my name for lunch. Not heading there 'cause I'm craving a footlong out of the blue—it's more about this sweet ache of nostalgia. Mom used to work at one, not this particular branch by the station, but let's be honest, they all have that cookie-cutter vibe, so does it really matter which one? Back in the day, mom would come home with these subs, and man, she had this magic touch. It wasn't just about slapping ingredients between bread; she crafted those sandwiches with a kind of love that made them taste like they were sprinkled with a bit of home. She had this knack for layering the meats so every bite had the perfect balance, the veggies always crisp, and she somehow made that standard-issue Subway bread taste like it was fresh from the oven. In my blissful ignorance, I believed she had some secret recipe, completely overlooking the fact that Subway sandwiches are pretty much the same, whether you're grabbing one in the city or some random spot halfway across the world.

So, whenever I sit down with my Turkey Breast on Italian herbs and cheese, I can't help but drift back to those evenings with her. It's kind of a bittersweet ritual, honestly. There's a twinge of pain in remembering those simpler times, but it's wrapped up in this warm, comforting blanket of memories. Sounds a tad masochistic to willingly stir up such emotions, but trust me, it's not all bad. There's a certain solace in it, a connection to the past that feels as close as the taste of those subs, making every bite a tiny time machine back to when it was just me and her, and everything felt right in the world.

It never really felt right with Frank. He and I, it's like we've been dancing to a song that's just slightly off-beat. In the beginning, sure, we were in sync, but those days are now tucked away in the dusty corners of once upon a time. Recently, he's been all consumed by his "job"—and yeah, I'm using air quotes because calling it a job might be stretching it. It's more like a passion project he hoped would magically morph into a career. Photography was his game, and not just any kind of photography. Frank had this grand idea to capture the essence of everyday folks but plucked from their ordinary surroundings and dropped into settings that were anything but. For example a librarian, but instead of being surrounded by shelves of books, she's perched on a giant chessboard, pondering her next move. Or a baker, dusted in flour, not in his kitchen but in the middle of a graffiti-splashed alley, kneading dough on an old barrel. Frank was chasing the vibe of normalcy meets the unexpected, aiming to peel back the layers and reveal something raw and real. I truly appreciated his ideas. They’d been as artful as mine.

Yet, as the wheels of success spun in the mud, his project took a turn. It's funny, not ha-ha funny but peculiar, how those portraits started shedding layers—literally. The focus narrowed to women, and the amount of clothing in the shots thinned out. It wasn't long before his subjects were more skin than fabric, and let's just say his clientele became a niche crowd with very... specific tastes. One bored afternoon, driven by curiosity and maybe a smidge of suspicion, I decided to do a little detective work and googled these commissioners of his. Let's just say, the internet revealed a rabbit hole of oddities and eccentricities that my fun-loving self found a bit too rich for my blood. There's adventurous, and then there's whatever Frank was diving into. It wasn't my scene, and watching it all unfold, watching him drift further into this strange new world, I couldn't help but feel like I was losing him to a crowd I didn't want any part of. It's one thing to push boundaries, another to cross lines I didn't even know existed.

Our moments together dwindled, and when we did find ourselves sharing the same space, Frank's interests had taken a... distinct turn. You might call these interests kinks. He became fixated on capturing me in a way that was both intimate and, frankly, a bit out of left field for us—focused on photographing me, or more specifically, my titties, which, by the way, are nothing to write home about. We're talking modest, unassuming, and a universe away from Cassie's more... prominent attributes.

The whole thing kicked off under the guise of humor or some flimsy wager—I genuinely can't recall what it was. But it was all pitched as a bit of risqué fun, something for just the two of us, a private laugh tucked away in a drawer. But as this new hobby of his unfolded, a nagging feeling began to worm its way into my gut, whispering that maybe this was more than just a cheeky diversion. This marked the onset of our unraveling, the first domino to topple in what would become a cascade of discontent. It wasn't the nadir of our relationship's spiral, no—that milestone lay just around the bend. But it certainly set things in motion, a slow-moving avalanche that, once started, proved unstoppable. Our foundation, already cracking, could no longer bear the weight of Frank's evolving passions, and what was once solid between us began to fracture beyond repair.

Oh, did I skip the part where I mentioned my own dive into the world of art? Yeah, I'm not just a spectator; I'm right in the thick of it, brush in hand and canvas before me. On the path to calling myself a painter—not quite there yet, but it's the dream. Right now, I'm still wading through the final year of my art studies, with a focus that's got me tangled up in the world of modern painting. So let me paint you a picture of what that means, no pun intended. There’s this vast, swirling cosmos of color, emotion, and rebellion against the traditional, all about breaking rules, splattering the conventional with a healthy dose of the unconventional. My days are spent studying the masters of modernism, those who dared to see the world through a kaleidoscope lens—think abstract expressionists who flung their souls onto empty pieces of paper, or the minimalists who found profound depth in simplicity. My own work is a mishmash of influences, a cocktail of bold lines and explosive colors, trying to carve out my own voice in the cacophony.

Let's be real, there was a moment when I nearly dropped the brush for good. The road to being an artist felt like it was paved with more pitfalls than promise. There's this mountain of theory that comes with the territory—philosophies, histories, critiques. Sometimes it feels like you need to wade through a swamp of words just to get to the painting part. And then there was the museum gig debacle that, well, let's just say it didn't pan out as hoped.

But I keep at it, pushing forward. It's like there's this invisible barrier I'm always trying to break through, a resistance that never quite goes away. Maybe it's the challenge of proving myself, or the stubborn refusal to let go of the dream. But whatever it is, I can't shake it. The desire to create, to express something real and raw and undeniably mine—it's what gets me up in the morning and keeps the paint flowing, even when the future seems as murky as an overworked palette.

So, where was I? Ah yes, making my way to the station post-lunch. You know the drill—every station's got that massive newsstand, a treasure trove of periodicals and tabloids. And me? I'm on a quest for the latest issue of Big Boobs. Yeah, laugh it up, but it's practically a monthly ritual at this point. Kinda sad, isn't it, when the highlight of your month involves skulking around a newsstand for a magazine that's more cleavage than content? The thing is, these newsstands aren’t exactly set up for leisurely browsing, especially not for the... ahem, more mature audiences. They’ve got these employees, right? Always bustling about, rearranging magazines and whatnot. But I swear, it's all a front. They're on the lookout for folks like me, trying to sneak a peek without coughing up the cash. I’m onto their little game, though. Over time, I’ve cracked the code on the best times to visit—when these watchdogs are off doing who knows what.

And then there’s the whole Big Brother vibe with the surveillance cameras. They say it's to deter shoplifters, but honestly? The thought of some pimply kid in a security booth watching me ogle at those glossy pages? Yeah, no thanks. I’ve got my dignity, thank you very much. But don't you worry, I've become something of a ninja in navigating those aisles. I know every nook, cranny, and, most importantly, every blind spot where the camera's unseeing eye can't catch me in the act. All for the sake of getting my hands on a magazine that, let's be honest, isn’t exactly contributing to my intellectual growth. But hey, we all have our guilty pleasures, right? And mine just happens to involve mastering the art of stealth in the pursuit of... art.

Ever stop to wonder why I've got this... fixation? 'Cause honestly, I'm drawing blanks here. It's not like I'm questioning my sexuality—at least, not in the traditional sense. An inferiority complex, then? That's a theory I've chewed over more times than I care to admit. And let me tell you, that's one persistent shadow trailing behind me, whispering sweet nothings about how I'm never quite measuring up. Let's dive into that murky pool for a sec. It's like every day's a performance review where I'm the harshest critic on the panel. My body? Not up to the mark. My art? Might as well use it to line bird cages. This relentless feeling of just... falling short, it gnaws at you, you know? Eats away at your confidence like some kind of emotional termite. It's exhausting, constantly battling this internal narrative that you're not enough—never were, never will be.

But... boobs? Really? On the surface, it sounds as deep as a puddle in the Sahara. I mean, of all the complexes to have, why this? It's not like we get to pick and choose our insecurities off a menu. I'll have the body image issues with a side of artistic self-doubt, please. Doesn't work that way. And yet, here I am, scrolling through categories on YouPorn like I'm on a mission, with a one-track mind honed in on that particular... interest. So yeah, maybe it makes me sound like a total noob or, worse, a cliché. But hey, we've all got our quirks, our little escape hatches from reality. Mine just happens to be a bit more, well, specific. And if that's what floats my boat, who's to judge? We're all taking this weird, winding journey of self-discovery, one questionable internet search at a time. To each their own, right?

Talking about the station, talking about trains, huh? My relationship with them is kinda like that friend you forget to call back—barely ever use 'em. Oh, but hang on a sec, that's a fib! Actually hopped on one a fortnight ago, destination: art school HQ. So, the art school I'm enrolled in is just a hop, skip, and a jump away by bus, nestled right here in my hometown. Cozy, convenient, but it's just the tip of the iceberg. See, this school is part of a much bigger beast. It's not your run-of-the-mill public institution but a sprawling network of private academies, each with its own vibe. And then there's the mothership, the central hub where all the bigwigs convene to make the big decisions. This place is a solid two-hour train ride away, tucked in some corner of the world that feels a bit too far from the comfort of my usual haunts.

In a moment of optimistic madness, I thought, Hey, why not throw my hat in the ring for a doctorate while I'm still clawing my way through my final year? Sounds like a solid backup plan, right? Especially considering my knack for... let's just say, not exactly nailing it when it comes to life's grand opportunities. But let's not dive into that can of worms just yet. That whole adventure of me, trains, and the quest for academic glory? It's a tale for another time—a not particularly uplifting one, I might add. But then again, you probably saw that coming.

Oh boy, buckle up because art school was a rollercoaster of creativity, chaos, and, well, naked truths. And right in the middle of this artistic smorgasbord is where the story of me and Frank kicked off. And here we circle back to the land of Frank, venturing once again into that all-too-familiar terrain. Woohoo! It was my third year of art school, where things started getting real spicy. At that time, we're not just dabbling in watercolors and landscapes anymore; we're moving straight into the tantalizing world of nude art. Yep, you heard that right. The setup was classic. A circle of easels and students, each of us armed with our brushes and palettes, all our artistic focus funneled towards the center of the room. And that center was reserved for the model. I remember there was the faintest hint of nervous sweat in the air in our first lesson.

Enter Frank. He saunters in with confidence oozing from every pore, draped in nothing but a pale blue bathrobe—the exact shade of which is etched into my memory for reasons I'm still unpacking. With a flair that could only belong to Frank, he lets the robe drop to the floor with the dramatic grace of a curtain at the opera's climax. And there he is, in all his glory, assuming a pose that screamed deep contemplation—think Rodin's The Thinker, but, you know, minus the stone and the subtlety. It was like watching a Greek god deciding he'd had enough of Olympus and wanted to try his hand at being a muse in the 21st century. The room suddenly felt smaller, every brushstroke seemed so much more significant as we all tried to capture the essence of this young (and frankly, quite handsome) man, our very own modern-day Adonis caught in a moment of introspection. That day, that pose, and that unforgettable pale blue bathrobe marked the beginning of everything with Frank. It was art, it was raw, and it was, in a way, the purest form of expression. It captured the human form, vulnerabilities laid bare (quite literally) for the sake of art. And little did I know, this was just the prologue to our own messy story.

Which wasn't a one-and-done deal. No way could a single session do justice to... let's call it his comprehensive aesthetic contributions (yeah, that's a fancy way of saying the guy was easy on the eyes, and I'm only half-joking). By the time we rolled into session number two, I found myself sliding into flirt mode. Maybe it was the post-Kevin drought talking, or perhaps just a craving for a smidge of attention, but there I was, laying on the charm thick. Think of it as throwing paint at a canvas and seeing what sticks. A compliment here, a playful smirk there, all while trying to capture his likeness. Trapped in his role as the stoic muse, Frank had his movements pretty much confined to the occasional shift or subtle turn of the head. Yet, even within those limitations, his responses to my flirting were like tiniest brush strokes of interest. There were those almost imperceptible nods, the corners of his mouth twitching in a suppressed smile, and those moments where his eyes met mine, sparking with a hint of mischief.

What struck me the most was the aura of confidence he exuded, like someone who not only knew they looked good but also had the charisma to back it up. It wasn't just the physicality of being naked; it was the way he owned it, the nonchalance of his pose, the serene look in his eyes that said, I've bared it all, and I'm still the coolest guy in the room. That kind of self-assuredness, bordering on the divine, could easily intimidate or put off the more faint-hearted souls among us. But for me? It was magnetic, drawing me in with the force of an unseen tide. I found myself pondering the man behind the model. Who was he, really, beyond the artful contours and the skin bared for the sake of art? What kind of person decides to stand naked, not just physically but metaphorically, in front of a room full of strangers, artists-in-training, all scrutinizing every inch of him? It was a vulnerability masked by an armor of confidence, and to me, that dichotomy was utterly fascinating. It wasn't just his physical appearance that had me intrigued; it was the mystery, the story behind those eyes that held a world I found myself wanting to explore.

By the time we hit the third session, the clock was ticking down on our artistic endeavors with Frank as our muse. The grand finale was upon us, where our creations would be scrutinized and assessed by our professor, Mrs. Konicek—a diminutive, seasoned woman teetering on the edge of retirement. You'd never peg her for someone who'd spend her days pondering the nuances of the human form in its birthday suit. Yet, every so often, the models themselves would embark on a little gallery walk, peering over our shoulders to see how their essence had been translated onto canvas. I was banking on that happening this time around. So, there I was, thinking, To heck with the grade; it's all about making an impression. With the deadline breathing down my neck, I realized I had left out a crucial element of Frank's portrayal. Yeah, you guessed it—his dick. Let's be real; it wasn't the stuff of legend. But here's the thing about nude art—it's not about titillation. It's an academic exercise, a deep dive into the intricacies of human anatomy, an exploration of form, shadow, and line. I was ready to add a dash of spice to the mix. It was time to challenge the conventional, to blur the lines between the clinical and the sensual. Because, why not? If art isn't about pushing boundaries, what's the point? My brush hovered over the canvas, poised to transform an anatomical detail into a statement, to infuse it with a hint of intrigue without crossing into vulgarity.

Why tiptoe around the subject? I went all in and supersized it—like, monumentally supersized. I transformed it into this Herculean feature, a veritable Leviathan that seemed to command its own zip code right there on the canvas. It hung there, almost comically, from the perch of his chair like some mythological creature lying in wait, a serpent coiled and primed for action. I'll be the first to admit, juxtaposed with its real-life counterpart, my rendition ventured into the realm of the fantastical. It was, in a word, exaggerated.

But, surprisingly, the gamble paid off on every front. The grade was stellar. It seems I had sorely misjudged our venerable professor, whose appreciation for artistic extravagance evidently surpassed my wildest predictions. As for Frank? The impact was nothing short of seismic. My audacious artistic license seemed to fuel his already formidable self-assurance, catapulting it into stratospheric new heights. His reaction was a complex tapestry of amusement, flattery, and a dash of bewildered vanity. There he was, confronted with a hyperbolic tribute to his masculinity, and it was as if I'd handed him the keys to the kingdom.

That painting—my bold, perhaps borderline absurd, homage—paved the way for our first date. Suddenly, we found ourselves exploring the exhilarating ups and precarious downs of a relationship sparked in the most unconventional of art classes. It was as though, in that moment of shared amusement and artistic boldness, we'd stumbled upon a common wavelength, a frequency that resonated with laughter, flirtation, and an undercurrent of mutual intrigue.

Yet, as you're well aware, the ascent was but a prelude to a more tumultuous downfall.

Ever had one of those moments where you catch your reflection and it's like a bucket of ice water down your back? I'm not talking about the morning mirror meet-and-greet, where your hair's throwing its own rebellious punk concert and your face is sporting the just rolled out of bed and faced a tornado look. Nah, that's child's play. I'm talking about that sudden, jarring encounter with your own reflection when you're out and about, living your life, maybe when you're cruising through a shopping arcade, eyes dancing over the latest fashion in the windows, and then—bam!—you're faced with a full-height mirror sandwiched between displays. There you are, in all your glory, standing in stark contrast to the airbrushed, sun-kissed models in swimsuits plastered on gigantic posters next to it. That kind of shock where you realize the person staring back at you looks about as sexy as a wet mop at a beach party, when you stand, in your everyday gear, looking worlds apart from the gleaming smiles and flawless poses of the bikini girls. And it’s not only the difference in appearances; it’s the vibe, the energy. They were radiating this life's a never-ending beach party aura, while you look like you were auditioning for the lead role in The Chronicles of Eternal Gloom.

Not long ago, I had such a moment. An unexpected moment of clarity that caught me completely off guard, like stumbling upon a hidden truth I wasn't ready to confront. The reality slap came at the tail end of the whole drama of Frank. Yeah, that's right, the grand finale, curtain call, and all that jazz. It was as if the universe picked that exact moment to hold up a mirror and say, Girl, look at yourself. Is this what you were aiming for?

So, here's the scoop on my monthly trip to the station's newsdealer, a ritual as quirky as it sounds. I make it a point to show up right when the new edition of Big Boobs Magazine hits the shelves. Now, you might wonder, why not just dive into the vast ocean of the internet for the visuals? Sure, that's a valid point, but hear me out—it's just not the same vibe. The magazine has this unique allure, a tangibility that pixels on a screen can't replicate. And, oh boy, the adrenaline rush of possibly getting caught flipping through its pages in public adds a whole other layer of excitement. Let's be real; the collection is hardly flying off the shelves, making it a niche find in their inventory. But for me, the anticipation is half the fun. The whole scenario of potentially being spotted by random bystanders adds a sprinkle of exhibitionism to the mix. Yeah, I get it, it's a tad embarrassing to admit. A chick, me, browsing through a sea of busty periodicals, under the bewildered gazes of passersby trying their hardest to maintain a poker face, all the while probably thinking, What's her deal with that stuff?

And oh, it's like they knew I was coming, and tucked away the adult mags in a small, secluded corner, perfect for a browse-and-dash. But there's one of those surveillance cameras focused on that nook, poised like a hawk over this den of guilty pleasures. Not exactly my idea of a chill browsing spot. So, I snag my magazine of choice and drift over to the automotive section. It's a smooth move, dodging the camera's unblinking gaze. There, amidst the glossies on muscle cars and the latest in automotive innovation, I find my sanctuary. A peculiar blend of interests, sure, but it grants me that sliver of privacy and, dare I say, a dash of normalcy in my unconventional magazine rendezvous.

Let me spill the beans on a moment that was, hands down, a heart-stopper for me. I was just about ditching the magazine back where it belonged—because, let's be honest, I never actually buy it. My eyes were darting around, taking in the array of risqué materials flanking it on either side. It was one of those moments, you know, where you're a tad titillated by the sheer audacity of your public magazine perusal. And then, bam! My heart did that thing where it decides to play hopscotch inside my chest. I squinted, blinked, rubbed my eyes—whatever it took to clear the disbelief. But nope, it was as clear as day: my own mug was plastered right there on the glossy cover of one of those magazines. And it wasn't just my face; it was me, top to waist, in all my modesty, making my already unassuming tits look downright humble after a session with Big Boobs. It was like being dunked in ice-cold water while simultaneously getting zapped by a live wire. My stomach did flips, my brain short-circuited, and for a moment, time just froze. But wait, the lower half of the magazine cover was all dressed up in a black cardboard skirt, a coy attempt to shield the most private parts of the portrayed body from underage eyes—eyes that have probably seen far more on the internet by breakfast than what's hidden under that board.

Of course I knew what lay beneath that panel. The image was etched in my memory, down to the date and the exact scenario that led to its capture by Frank. The realization that every Tom, Dick, and Harry picking up this magazine would see me in my full, unadulterated glory was a gut punch. I was utterly gutted, a cocktail of embarrassment, betrayal, and a weird sense of violation swirling inside me. It was a devastation of epic proportions, the kind that makes you wish the floor would kindly open up and swallow you whole.

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Boy, I truly miss Mom. Wondering how she'd tackle these situations is like imagining a superhero in plain clothes. Unflappable, she was, with a Zen vibe that could soothe the wildest storms. She would come strolling in with one of her Subway sandwiches in hand—maybe a hearty Italian B.M.T., piled high with all the fixings. She'd wrap me up in one of her bear hugs, the kind that could piece you back together, and drop one of her classic lines, When life hands you lemons, make lemonade. Sure, her pearls of wisdom might have been borrowed from the back of cereal boxes or those cheesy motivational calendars you find in office cubicles, as original as a pre-set Subway menu. But man, did they hit the spot. And yeah, she had her share of roller coaster rides, her own battles with life's curveballs. But throwing in the towel? Not in her playbook. She just powered through, a steady force in the face of chaos. I'm over here, trying to channel her strength, her unwavering spirit. On the brink of wrapping up my final year, with dreams and doubts in tow, I find myself wishing to inherit even a fraction of her resilience. Because, let's face it, I'm still hoping to make her proud, one quirky, motivational saying at a time.

So, landing a doctorate, huh? Might just be the golden ticket to leveling up in life, right? Spot on. But let's not kid ourselves—the road ahead isn't exactly paved with rainbows. Remember the whole song and dance about hoofing it to the bigwigs' lair for that shot at academic glory? Well, I cherry-picked what I figured were the crown jewels of my artistic arsenal for the all-important portfolio (because, hey, first impressions are a battlefield in their own right). And then, by a quirk of fate, I tossed in that nude masterpiece of Frank—the one where his manhood's got more ambition than a Silicon Valley startup—because, why not? If it got a thumbs-up from Mrs. Konicek, maybe it would charm the socks off the high council too. Bright and early one day, I was ready to lay my dreams (and maybe a bit of my sanity) on the line in front of the jury. It was a mission to carve out my future, armed with nothing but my art, a dash of hope, and the infamous drawing that, for better or worse, had become my wildcard. But hey, go big or go home, right?

Against all odds, the panel was actually into it. But, to my dismay, they were way more into it than I had ever intended. They went on and on, lavishing praise on the audacity of the concept, the boldness of the execution, and how the drawing pushed the boundaries of traditional nude art. Yet, with every compliment, my irritation ratcheted up a notch. Why? Because this whole adulation session unfolded just two days after I'd given Frank the boot for good, excising him from my life with the precision of a scalpel. Having his likeness—especially that exaggerated part of him—be the star of the show was rubbing salt into an already stinging wound.

But the jury was relentless, waxing lyrical about the piece, oblivious to the emotional maelstrom it was stirring in me. Suddenly, I felt like I was being erased from my own work, with Frank—of all people—stealing the spotlight. That's when my cool completely evaporated. "THIS IS COMPLETE BULLSHIT! HIS DICK ISN’T NEARLY THAT HUGE!" I exploded, my frustration boiling over. In a fit of defiance, I snatched the drawing from the lead juror's grasp and proceeded to rip it to shreds. Not just in half, but over and over, until it was nothing but a confetti of my discontent scattered across their table. Without another word, I turned on my heel and stormed out, leaving a stunned silence in my wake. Talk about making an exit, right? But as I marched away, I couldn't help but think that my impromptu performance piece probably didn't score me any points towards securing that doctorate.

Glancing down at my wrist, I check the time, though it is hardly necessary given the abundance of clocks plastered across the newsagent's walls. Cassie is due to meet me soon. I slide the magazine back onto its shelf, right beside where my own image has made an unexpected appearance less than a month earlier. A wave of relief washes over me. Heading towards the exit, something catches my eye—a stack of The Urban Lens magazines, casually commanding attention in one of the aisles. Lo and behold, the thing is real! Not just a figment of that camera-toting wannabe pimp's imagination. And by the looks of it, it is hitting it off with the public. The cover features a woman, just your average Jane—much like myself, but, crucially, fully clothed. No scandalous exposure à la my unintentional debut in Sluts for Fun.

I let out a heavy sigh. Here it is, tangible proof of a world where I could've been a cover girl for all the right reasons, staring back at me. Yet, there I am, notorious for entirely different—and far less dignified—reasons. It feels like flipping through a personal catalog of What Ifs, each page a reminder of roads not taken, chances fumbled, and doors that closed just as I thought I'd found a way in. Just another chapter in my ongoing Book of Opportunities Missed. It’s becoming more epic by the day.

Maybe it’s time to explore new horizons with Cassie. The idea of being with a woman hasn't really crossed my mind before, but hey, life's full of surprises, right? And there’s something intriguing about the possibility. Perhaps she'd even share the glory of her ample boobs with me. Maybe offering a peek or more. I can almost feel the heft of them in my hands, marveling at the sheer weight and thinking to myself, Wow, lugging these treasures around all day has got to feel like a round-the-clock gig. And I knew it would make me feel good.

Perhaps I should ask her out. I don’t know.