What's Underneath 'Em

My chest hurts when I breathe, twist, move, or generally be alive.

When you google the name of the jeans company I modeled for (I'm not telling, obvi) you find a blog from a young male model going fucking apeshit because he got invited to the casting. He didn't get the gig and I, obviously, did, and I know it's petty and mean but this kind of anonymous jealousy / schadenfreude is exactly the kind of thing on which I hang my self-image. I got something that somebody else wanted. I may have also gotten a broken rib.
Was it worth it? Yes. I'll leave it at that.

I need to get back in touch with everyone. My life. I need a new job. Like actually. What to do!
I'm go-go dancing this Saturday night, check it out:

Tonight I'm dancing with La JohnJoseph's piece at the Cockette's tribute. I feel like this song, which Hunter and Katie and Emma introduced me to last night. All music videos, songs, singers, and people should be like this:

(don't you wish Kanye West was your boyfriend? I sure do.)

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