You know what? Why not. These are all of my posts in the last year or so that could be construed in some way to be aesthetic theory. They vary in completeness and the extent to which I would still endorse them.
She’d read in a magazine
once that unequal-sized breasts was normal—some kitschy women’s magazine like Marie Claire or Cosmopolitan, the kind you retrieved somewhat apologetically from
the plastic rack at the dentist’s office, I
don’t normally read this kind of trash, she hopes her expression conveys to
the other patrons, one of them a thirteen year-old boy with more metal in his
mouth than you’d find beneath the hood of a car. He somehow finds and fixates
on the word SEX written in all caps on the front cover, between the gaps in her
clenched fingers, and he sits and wonders what kinds of secrets Cosmo knows about pleasure that he doesn’t.
The article about breasts
comes right after the one on how to give your man the blow job of his life, and
Twenty-Seven Sex Positions to Try With Your Man NOW, positions she probably
otherwise never would have thought of, ones that hang somewhere between the
realm of uncomfortable and completely fucking ridiculous, unless you’re a yoga
instructor or acrobat.