I learned in 2003 when I was 16 in a 1970’s retro-ly unchic locker room in my high school, sweating to death in a strapless dress, underwire digging into my skin, that life sucks in a strapless bra.

Going through the motions of being a woman, well, sucks. From the moment mother nature throws us a puberty curve ball, we are screwed. A cringe-worthy convo about the God damn birds and the bees with your parental figure turns into falling down the rabbit hole of finding our sense of style and who we want to be, to fitting in, to making ourselves suffer through blood sweat and tears to make the latest trends work for us I mean … for the love.

Listen … I adore fashion so much it makes me weak. I love the shows, I love the designers, I love playing around with different looks, I love it, I love it, I LAHVE IT :::flings foot in the air::: And with love, just like beauty, comes pain. And in the words of Ja Rule … “you know baby, cause love is about pain,” (oh yeah, I went there).

So here … know you aren’t alone. And know you don’t have to walk around in 4 1/2 inch stilettos with a duck face pout radiating fabulousness. Because we all know your feet hurt like a bitch and you just want to punt your fantastic shoes across the room and massage your bunions, am I right? And if you don’t, get out. No seriously … I’m Donatella Versace-style kicking you out of my blogdom.

So enough, pour yourself a cocktail, sit down, undo your bra, take your pants off (whatever floats your boat), and get comfortable, because sometimes we just gotta laugh at the things we endure as women, am I right?!

Welcome and have a ball as I present my pride and joy … Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra.


Ps. Did I really just quote Ja Rule? Dear God …

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