I like wearing wigs because I get to see immediate physical transformations of myself. If I put on a short wig with a boy-cut, I start posing with a swagger, I become more tomboyish. If I put on a long, feminine wig, my body language softens, my movements become more coy. Sometimes, putting on a wig feels like shutting one version of myself, and briefly activating another.

Today, I was penduluming between wanting to be a fairy, and a trashy blonde girl. I decided I could be both. I got this cheap blonde wig from Daiso, and decided to straighten out the curls with a hot iron.



A girl and her bedroom

edit: video up.

animal dreamfish enchanted 2 feets lie reach spectacle

3 o’ clock. Dreamy, sun-lit afternoons. One of my favourite feelings in the world is that of calm-nothingness. I fall into an isolated moment, and idle the day away with wasteful indulgence. I cut my bangs. I put on lipstick for no good reason. I observe the cracking dryness of my skin. I lie on the floor, feeling the texture of wood against my bare calves. I marvel at the strange dexterity of my hands, such ugly-pretty things. I remove my glasses, and my world blends into soft shapes, and Gaussian blurs. It feels like stepping out of speeding traffic on the highway of life, and heading off into the sidewalk. When the dream ends, there is always a little feeling of regret.

New camera. Experiments ensued. Also my reason for taking pseudo-abstract selfies.

A Girl and Her Thighs


Dear seafarer,

A short body-centric post tonight.

I am particularly sensitive about my thighs. Whenever I wear jeans or short pants, I need to take a step back and scrutinize myself in the mirror, turning and twisting, as if I were searching for a reflection that I could accept.

Sometimes I stand upright and grab the backs of my thighs, hold on to the excess fat, and pull backwards. The effect is instantly slimming, and the swell of my inner thighs tenses and diminishes. My eyes fixate on the gaps between them, marveling at how distance can sometimes be beautiful.

As you have might have guessed by now, I am not a fan of my own thighs.

I dislike how they look big in certain jeans, how they awkwardly stretch the fabric of my pants, how they fill up my shorts.  I take care to wear clothes or skirts that go slightly beyond the apex of where my thighs begin. Tights with skirts. Elongated blouses. Trenchcoats. Long cardigans. Oversized jumpers or sweaters.

I dislike how my thighs spill out over tinier chairs, or seem to cover the entire car seat. I dislike how, upon close examination, they seem bigger than before, and dimpled with dry skin, or dotted with goosebumps.

I have found that I adjust my body in certain postures, because I subconsciously want to hide my thighs. When standing, I take care that they do not touch side by side. I stand with my feet slightly apart. I sit cross-legged on the floor, with my heels digging into my inner thighs, pushing the fat inwards. I cover my thighs with bags, or pencil cases, or books.

I do not like my thighs.

I wish they were smaller, and that I had a thigh gap.

However, having said that- I still find the space between my inner thighs the warmest place for my hands to be (when I do allow my thighs to touch).

I like how they taper out to my slimmer calves.

I like how they have taken me places, strained themselves on the treadmill, helped me run.

I like how they can be a place of rest.

And oh, alright. They do look pretty nice in certain shorts or hotpants or skirts.

Perhaps one day I will meet a person who will make me forget about how big my thighs look, and how he doesn’t actually care.

Thigh gap or no thigh gap.

Dimpled with dry skin and goosebumps or smooth.

Spilling over with fat, or cut down to bone. 

Perhaps he will find them beautiful anyway, in their abundance, or lack thereof.

Ah, I’m really tired now. I need to crash. This post has been nonsensical.

Good night.