a breath

how splendid, moments to our self. barely yesterday it was quite the contrast, a winter hibernated with few more but our pup, our own bedeviled banter and a peppering of carnal callings. perhaps a meeting or two so we could pay the rent. twas at once a delight and a plague, in many ways just a reversion of needstate. an adaptation to animal.

some gorgeous, wretched truths sure surface in solitude. hours spent in thoughts both tortuous and inspired, in bouts of discovery. you can end up places good, others far from. a rather interesting experiment if you have the chance.

and now returning to march, the return of something set free, the best summer days we've witnessed in life; these hours sometimes feel like they've turned to ash. but it's really only in these moments where the mind moves on, evolving what you think you know, how you're sure you feel. it's no coincidence a brain enjoys tracing the walls of a maze with grace, it's function to figure and problem solve. they're critical and we should each use in earnest. spend time wisely. means more books less blogs. no bachelor, but bach. create, and carry your creativity with you even to places it doesn't belong. and listen to the voice (the one that doesn't involve your mouth).

space-wasting

we've come to note a rather disturbing wave making way across our city; an innuendo, influence tinting the vibe of many a boy about town. oh don't get brasandranties wrong, this has always been a bit of a problem. but things seem to have dialed up while we were looking the other way.

hair gel and chains. tees muscled, silkscreened. chests puffing fists pumping. there's guidos, guidos everywhere.

while brasandranties may be a proponent of a good old g-t-l for the soul, we just cannot fathom how the jersey shore circus is actually turning into trend. we've watched an episode or two, perplexed and horrified at just how very orange, but 5.5million people watch this shit weekly. for pleasure. and it's starting to show.

a revolving episode of partying and pulling girls, all of it made dramatic by the frequency beer goggles find the busted en hot tub, the complexities of coordinating multiple hook-ups, testosterone and tequila infused beat-downs, and the blue-balled frustration of being left in the lurch (on camera, no less). and in having lapped up the lives of america's most curious sweethearts, we've (er, you've) idolized them, normalized and glorified some pretty nasty ass habits. a sociocultural green light to guido-out. the situation will bank $5million in 2010. what a dire situation it is.

hot to shop

we are currently mustering all sorts of self-control (sitting on hands, conjuring responsibility like a sorceress, spells to combat our visa's mysticism) thumbing through thumbnails of a line we are loving: shakuhachi. out of australia, every piece just looks a leisurely, luxurious delight. an apparel accompaniment to a very different way of life. j'adore.

our fantasy fall wardrobe yearns for this aesthetic; unique updates to shapes in any girl's list of wares-necessaire. an edgy femininity. we're assuming topshop will come closest to complementing the vibe, but hot damn it we wantie.

lots of emails desiring more what we wore (blush) and thus your wish is our command. what we wore, to work and otherwise to come all week. happy monday, lovelies.

and the living aint easy

mother fucker. here we go again. stuck going round, all but merry, gaining speed. a heavy grip of momentum. it never ceases to amaze us, the tremendous force of a brain's bad habits. how much we can get in our own way. it's the truest test of the fool, really, the mistakes of an unlearned, immature ego. frankly we should know better.

and thus we're hoping there is something with a greater potency than our tempestuous tendencies. a deeper (dare we say soulful?) intention to pull it together. to accept the lessons life is smacking us in the face with, to let them bump us forward as they rage to do. to live better. isn't it the point.

most of us ignore signs, learnings, lessons when they come a-knocking. at first they're wrapped up easy, breezing by us as we continue to insist we know better. so they come back for more, manifesting a little meaner, packing a heftier punch than their visits did prior. until you wake up one day and your shit does not look pretty. your vantage point the pit of a ditch you've been digging in your sleep.

well fuck. there's only one way out and it's up. we are on earth to get over sins, old habits, our nasty selves. forgive adolescent torments, daddy issues, the scars life guarantees to deliver. we are all broken. every human is hurt. we are each but surviving, striving for contentment. the point is to do your best to be better. live, fuck up, get up and learn.

tie her up and take her out

there's nothing quite like riding top-down shotgun through darkened city streets, craning your neck toward the buildings and the black. eyes up, full trust. it's a rather intriguing view of the city, to parallel the sky, like treading a whole new plane. an exhilarating freedom when the wind whips across the neck. an odd sensation when cool night hits the nose.

but by god what a disaster it leaves our lid wherever we arrive, a puffy mess of blondesque tangles. bangs frozen backward. a true helmet of hair. not hot. while we've successfully sourced (and over-utilized) a floral print turban (found at vintage69) our selection of scarves as headdress remains largely untouched, as we seem curiously unable to tie the fuckers. en retard.

then we stumbled upon this little wrap-up, via god knows who writing god knows what (it's a browser orgy over here). nevertheless we like it, the simple how to scarve. turban number one is our primary objective, to be experimented with post-haste.

molting

fear not the post below might be representative of some sort of new-found fashion minimalism, that our style has somehow shifted simple overnight. that the wardrobe's gone zen. hardly. one of the best parts of opening up room for favorites to parade in opportunity is the space left in between. the room for timelier, trend-oriented pieces to round out the racks. peppering the now throughout.

and as the sales drone onward across august waves, we find our mind wandering helplessly toward the colors textures cuts of what's to come. while we'd be remiss to encourage the desertion of this summer sunshine (today rather inspirational in its absence) a part of us growls hungry for our city's fleeting fall and all its fashion.

bloggie favorite who what wear (long-readers long-aware) feeds the fury just right, recent posts not only providing a taste of next season's styles but also inspiration on how to work them in to now (as we tend). newest neutrals of rich camel and leopard print, straight leg seventies, thick knits and maxi skirts each fall for summer's light, diaphanous sensibilities. they come together to juxtapose, a bolder creativity. a fashion-lover's favorite time of year.

so what's on your own wardrobe wishlist? what looks are getting a second look? would love to hear what you have your eyes on. what you wore. email me@brasandranties.com

designing life

we read somewhere (some source unsure, a web-based whisper, an unidentified digital dig) that the pressures of moving were emotionally akin to losing a loved one or family member. now as a soul who's lost a love (that painful thud in the gut: a door closing with unexpected departure) we can only scoff at the notion. we'd take this transition any day. but there's hardly any doubt that the process is exacting; a formidable change to a most primary human need. it inevitably leaves one feeling all fucked up, upside down, unsure. the search for comfort unyielding, home a fuzzy memory removed. each night we find we force our eyes wide, just to be sure we are where we are. it's really all kindsa weird.

and yet the oddly process has also allowed us a most fundamental fine-tuning, our chance to be released from beneath piles and piles of stuff. every possession we owned was put through a rigorous edit, the purpose only to pare down. to lighten the load that seems to lock us in a place; a burden gathering weight timidly, nudging us slowly toward suffocation. so we tossed it over the threshold, gave it new life with lives who have much less. people to whom our things would matter. and in doing so, we were left with only what matters most to us. more than a fair trade. life seems lighter, our breath now revolves with more ease. good chi all around. we'd highly recommend it.

chaos for peace

we find long weekends especially difficult.

it's not for the luxurious hum of hours, standing back to back in what seems (when you're in it) a line neverending. not the addition of one more day of fun, one more day for one's self. it's certainly not the bliss of opening eyes monday morning, bed the only place you've gotta be. it's the taste, that delectable, irrefutable reminder of how our life used to be. of when our time was our own. the very memory makes us whimper. what the fuck were we thinking again?

in fact we even made it an extra (extra) long one, the break of days exactly what was needed not to recoup from the grind but to simply get shit done. and thus we packed up our clothes, our house, our life and dove head first into the new. a brand new home, with a different sort of heart.

to be frank and to be truthful, we did it for our chi. for our writing. we've never felt a space less creative, a place that made us less inclined than the one from which we've just departed. what a drain of energy, what a strain to feel comfort. we closed the door without even looking back. and now, bright and white and built for artistry. ceilings soaring, windows high, feeding us with light (instead of sucking the breath right out of us). a place that makes us smile when the key turns. and we're home.

email me@brasandranties.com

you're going the wrong way

easy street presents itself a rather tantalizing option for lifetime travel - paved shoulders glimmering with the bliss of ignorance. built to blind lest your mind wander, ponder where you've found yourself.

it may be work; paths lined with willows weeping dollar bills, your pockets just big enough to inspire the re-creation of dreams. an aspirational rearrangement in accordance with the plan. the ladder suddenly a steadier climb than the heroic jumps of the dream chaser.

it could be him; clicks of comfort whispering what sounds enough like love. situations commanding, the wedding-washed demanding. somehow convinced, quieting the inkling that perhaps the person's presence is never, will never be large enough to fill the void of what they're not. no fire to stoke in the first place.

it very well may be life; bumping bodies as you breast-stroke the channel of mediocrity, gaining leads where you might, yet never enough to break away. presuming upon a change agent to squat in waiting, to trip you up across your tread. as if the magic of possibility was to seek us out, it's responsibility a direct proposition.

easy street is a path purposeful in its most fundamental appeal: a lack of difficulty. a lack of challenge. to consider it is human, all the moreso after a tough run at things. but it's a useless option. it's our responsibility to avoid this fate, to seek out the shit that challenges us, forces stretch leaps risks tumbles. to run from easy street, frightened of the place it might spit us out. to simply deem it the inexcusable path for pussies. we mean, really.

if you're holding yourself back, get out of the way. if you're scared of change, get ready to kiss its ass. life's gifts are directly proportional to life's chaos: the more you live, the more you live. see you out there.

do it yourself, why don't you

we're kind of obsessing over the latest greatest diy from the (one and only) glamourai, her own recreation of a dress; first deconstructed then improved upon. a chic way to give new life to vintage scarves, to wrap yourself in something so light and luxurious seems the only way to bear this scorching summertime of ours. and the asymmetrical hardware? yes please.

we've long loved the notion of refashioning the pieces sitting stale within our wardrobe, transforming their shapes and their essence to mirror your own. turns out it takes minimal seamstress skills to be able to strategically pin, tuck and cut a brand new life into whatever fashion you've fallen out of step with, whatever's laying idle. budget-friendly, too.

let us know if you ever give this a go, or if you have something better in mind for the class. you know what to do me@brasandranties.com

(image stolen from the glamourai)

have you popped your topshop, cheri?

topshop in toronto is more than old news by now, setting up shop over a month ago in the back of jonathan + olivia as a temperature test for the marketplace. a pre-expansion experiment before setting up permanent digs somewhere round town. we like it. we want it.

we'd just assumed everyone and their milfy mother had made their way downtown by now to check the wares, an edited, ever-evolving collection that has already begun to transition itself fabulously into brasandranties' summer wardrobe, as it were.

to highlight, the shoes at right, a set of heavy, seventies-esque sky-highs that seem to transform themselves into the best shoes ever once upon our feet. it's as if they all but disappear, adding nothing but leggy inches to our vertically-lacking frame. and voila, they instantly became our every day shoe. every. fucking. day.

throughout the racks you'll find on-trend pieces that will find a way to sit as staples amongst what you want to wear right now. in a fortnight (ah the brits) you'll be over them, and that's okay. that's the point. don't expect parity with h&m, in choice nor in price-point. it's more like zara with an edge. it's good. a great addition to the toronto shopping mix.

we'll be posting what we wore soon (we promise, we do). we have a half a dozen ready to rip sitting languidly on our lazy man's memory card. in the meantime, just for funsies, why don't you send us what you wore for once?

the bloggie blahs

thanks for your emails asking after our whereabouts, our chi, whether or not we were dead. we don't even know what's up with the lack of le blog, our writings lately taking on enormously laborious proportions, requiring much more energy than we seem able to give. hey we aint apologizing; the only way to play in this inane and crazy space (at least until you're getting paid) is to just do you. but still, we've gotta get our mojo back.

truth is our creativity seems all but completely on hiatus, like we're just running this rut of rote inspiration. like we've lost touch with the undercurrent. work taking up any clever juice we have to give, shitty weed taking up the rest. change is most certainly in order. so we're packing in, moving up, finding a new space big and bright. a studio, a den, a workshop for writing, working, wearing (living) just a bit more creatively. it's exactly what we need.

despite it we've been having a hell of a summer, perpetual days soaked in rays enough to inspire a fuckload of fun, at the least. and we hope you've been having the same. drop us a word, bird me@brasandranties.com

three's a crowd

it happened as casually as anything, one of last week's warm sticky nights, over the solicitation of a cigarette. the brushing of fingers, habit changing hands. the intimate act of bringing a stranger alight. four eyes meet each other across the flick of fire, then each set subsequently turns, looks directly toward us.

before she said it we could tell exactly what she wanted; could feel her eyes running over our skin, her precursor to much more. there was no dance around it, free from hints, absent of entendres. she leaned in close, breathed both of us in, looked down where our bodies were pushed together. she looked up at him, she looked back down at brasandranties, she smiled out one side of her mouth, and she suggested a menage a trois.

in truth we've never had one, yet to have the opportunity arise, and we weren't about to start that night. frankly we'd always envisioned being the guest, the supporting actress who can slip out when it's over, just part of the fantasy. unscathed from flashbacks of flesh burned into memory. away from any insecurities, arguments that may haunt a couple after having shared. seems a rather messy business, both literal and figurative. but that's just us.

would we share our own man, invite another woman to have him too? we just can't fathom it, most especially this one. seems the jealous sting of a scorpio is one of our fundamental traits. besides, we've never been one to share. he, of course, defaults to us, but would probably jump in should the situation arise. and what guy wouldn't?

the interaction got us wondering, pondering again the differentials between guys and girls, between guys with girls. men have the ability (the biology, the chemistry) to distinguish sex from love, to have the former without the latter. to fuck, no strings attached. and yet women, despite their declarations and best intentions, tend to get the two all tangled up, eventually wrapped tight in our strings of complication, convolution.

what do you think - do you, could you, have you? what happened when you did? confabulate amongst yourselves, or email me@brasandranties.com. let's just say we're curious.

words better left in our journal. oh well.

we're not sure what to make of it, the blogette silence as of late. we just haven't been here, if that makes any sense: physically, emotionally, inspirationally. left in its place is simply disinclination, disheartenment it seems, not for the blog nor for the people but maybe just for the point of it. for the world of it. so we found ourselves clamming closed against a place with a face we don't really like the looks of right now. sorry about that.

we know we can humor, confuse, annoy some people with our tendency to rantie on the state of things. theories on conspiracies, mistrust for mankind, evil enterprise not typically topical within the crowds we tend to run. we suppose we just needed a break, pause, recalibration. yet now the whole notion feels so foreign we can barely blurt it out, let alone blog the fucker.

to be honest we get the vibe that many of you have been feeling a bit off. eclipses, heatwaves, frustrations - attribute it to what you will, but there's no doubt the bad chi's raging. upsets unsettling. it's really a mindfuck if you ponder it: positivity and it's fleeting nature. is it sustainable? is it possible? is it how people really feel? seems to us the state of perpetual happiness is limited to the extremes: the ignorant and the self-enlightened. the rest are just real people, living lives in the grey area in between, trying our damnedest. yet perhaps it's not the actual state (but just the daily quest for it) that eventually leads us to our happy place. or at least, a better place.

funny how easy it is to live in polarity to it though, human propensity easily swung toward brooding, toward concern instead. is it conditioned, the faults of the news, our parents, the g20, pharmaceuticals, high fructose corn syrup? or is it just fucking human?

a rantie

we watched this weekend's siege of our city just a spectator, to both the movements and the mayhem. cocooned in our guilt within canada's paradise, that great north, the two cents of an armchair worthless by all accounts. in truth, being left to witness what went down through a screen gave the whole thing a surreal, manufactured feeling. reminiscent of hollywood, as it were. glimpses of a town familiar, masked in an alien narrative. the backdrop of a made up land.

what's undeniably real is that we returned to a city that feels as different as it's looked these past days. to say otherwise clearly means you have yet to see this, or this, or this. it feels sad. less innocent, less hopeful. it feels traumatized, grim reminders everywhere that it's not as much ours as we'd have liked to think.

all eyes are at once on canada, the quiet force sitting in wait with his magic tricks. oil. water. land. lumber. air. where we see canada's most darling, harper sees big fucking bank. so he takes the world's most powerful figures (figureheads fingerpuppets) to one of our country's most glorious geographies (lest we forget the world just saw the other) to talk shop. then he corrals a few more of 'em downtown (ignoring mayoral recommendations it take place at the ex, which already has a wall) and instead heads straight into the heart of our city. the heart of this country's (strong) economy. cha-ching. showoff.

meanwhile, how to remove those stubborn curiosities, those inquisitive concerns of the world's citizens about what's actually being discussed at this roundtable. what's being dealt on our behalf. how about purposely inciting mass exodus (the potential accounts of the lawyered up) then purposely enticing mass destruction? vandals left to run wild through the streets for 90mins on day one (fires burning, media's trojan horse) justifies the ludicrous 1.2billion dollar spend. getting tough the next day (denying rights, detaining unlawfully, assaulting verbally physically sexually the peaceful people) shows the world we aren't going to play so nice anymore.

along with a call for public inquiry, brasandranties calls for the upgrade of harper's strategist. the whole thing was just for show. public relations. advertising. and transparent, at that. the fiasco was simply a brand repositioning. canada land: timid no longer.

perhaps what the institutions didn't bank on was the force of the collective, the voices involved each with their own turn at the megaphone. timid no longer. we have a feeling stories will keep coming keep coming keep coming. and we want to know: what actually happened here this weekend, and why. and who's fucking canada is this anyway?

(image stolen from jen takes pictures)

ask brasandranties

keep em coming people. we may not be too quick to respond, but we always do so eventually. when the time is just right. pretend it's a carrier pigeon. vintage styles. me@brasandranties.com

brasandranties, hoping you can help. straight up: i checked my boyfriend's phone and saw some highly suspicious behaviour. i'll spare you the details but it's been effectively agreed that i'm getting two-timed. so how to bring it up without seeming the creep? lots of love. (obv) anonymous.

oh dear. well, you seem appropriately convinced of his conniving activities, so we won't waste our blogette breath trying to defend the fool. let's agree to call a spade a schmuck and move along. which is exactly the point: you creeped his phone, he's proactively attempting to bone others, and you're the one who's worried? get your head together. he's breaking deals, dude. your breach of privacy is nothing compared with his breach of promise.

there are very few of us could truthfully, convincingly state that we've never (ever) checked a lover's phone. oh fine, we know it aint right. and experience dictates it should be avoided at all possible costs (you'll drive yourself nuts at every innuendo, trust). but once someone has cause to worry, once their radar's raging, they wind up snooping the berry. it's just a fact of life. you're human. he's a horndog.

tell the truth as to how you conceived your adulterous accusations, then ask him calmly and directly to explain. whatever you do, do not throw the blackberry: at his head or out the window (uh, just trust). be chill as you demand your (deserved) explanation. from that point forward it's up to you to trust your gut: its voice is always a bit louder than love's, fear's. it will probably tell you to dump the dude. so do it. you deserve better. best of luck x brasandranties

the stylings of strangers

we know, we know. we've been rather lame with posting what we wore and we're hearing about it from every direction. patience, pretties. they're in there, laying in wait in the pipeline. waiting to feel inspired in their recreation (ugh, we always forget the night of) and waiting for our camera to be fixed (capless lenses en-bird, bad idea). so we guess you can say the blogette's a bit backed up. lots in our head, less out our fingertips. our roll sure seems mighty lackadaisical these days.

truth be told we find we've taken to this thang as an outlet for our deepest ranties, the things that trouble us the most. to get through them is often a rather exhaustive process: shaping, birthing, mind-gasming our confused feelings on the the matter. that shit aint easy, lest you forget.

we're well aware these creative experiments have taken a (sort of) backseat to our other endeavors: what we wore where we shopped whom lindsay lohan flashed somehow less of a priority in the grander scheme of things. and yet we've also come to miss these meanderings peppered throughout the madness, those whispers (by the ways) within any other kind. so we'll put our back back into it, give the blogette a little extra oomph. we will try our best to post the shit out of it (including lotso what we wore). hold us to it, mmkay?

in the meantime, we suggest you get lost in the style musings of brasandranties' latest blogette hearts: frou frouu. here you'll find a girl with a gorgeous sense of style, that's potentially trumped by her even more glorious pictures. we dare you not to be inspired, moved to trying something new. we know we were.

(image stolen from frou frouu)

do right woman, do right man

at any given point in time, the blogette and its ramblings can be found representative of real life. inspired by instance, conversation, or observation certain seeds just cross our footing, impossible to ignore. their only destiny to manifest rantie. and so it were.

this latest arrived a bit of an undercurrent, the issue (the inspiration) tugging at us like a toddler for attention. first an email query from a woman in love with a man who bores (v bangs) her brains out in the bedroom. next a friend's (horrifyingly matter of fact) declaration of her continued quest for the as-yet unproved orgasm. then this weekend, the drank pontification of a girl who'd chosen companion instead of satisfaction, lacking in lust but fulfilled in spite of it. fulfilled (no doubt) her freudian slip of sadness, but we digress.

all of these women, sexually dissatisfied. underwhelmed. the anticlimax in its most literal form. forgive us, our useless theories, but we can't help but point out the overwhelmingly obvious here. seems to us like the boys aren't trying so hard. something is amiss if the guys are getting off and the girls are not. something broken in the food chain, the power dynamics, the emotional equilibrium between two. you call it biology - we call it the zombie effect of the over-porned. regardless. the boys are getting lazy.

mutual orgasms. an evolving sense of sexuality. a racing state of randy for each other, years in. these things to us are mandatories. anything else simply won't do. simply put: don't marry a dude unless he's a top five lay (we used to say top three but a girl's gotta do her thang, so we make room for those transformative tumbles). in other words, for it to last, you've got to love to make love with him.

if your bedroom's blase, if you're still searching for the mind-blowing, if you've shrugged your shoulders and declared it as just not happening - fuck that shit. this is what we're built to feel, what our bodies are made to do. it's in you, we can promise you that. find your fantasies with your man, or else find a man who can do you right. figure your fingers to do you right yourself. find a fuck buddy, then find another one. explore your sexuality. go deep raw unscripted, without qualms about how you look, how you sound, how you smell. keep the flame alive 24/7, connect it to your womanhood. it's amazing what bad sex can do for the psyche. it's amazing what great sex can do for the soul. accept anything less and you'll come to regret it. it's the only thing that'll be coming, anyway.

something wicked this way comes

they say old habits die hard. patterns tough to break, cycles methodically turning, churning. a power over person, reigning them in.

we've wondered about the mind, its ability to keep us spinning on the same go-round. at times less merry, more masochistic. despite all we know (our lashing life lessons, rough rides) there it tends to go. and go. and go. same shit on a different shit day. more like bad habits die hard.

we humans tend to ignore the truth that we're more than just our minds. that perhaps this curious complex contorted muscle can at times become confused. lead us astray. a gritty playground, sticky with the sins of the self-accusatory. drilling down deep somewhere dark. it's really rather easy to get lost in there.

but isn't it true that our truly transformative moments (those tiny episodes of evolution, those life lessons) seem to happen not in the brain but in the soul? that the mind can actually slow us down. hold us back. keep us from the process.

so how do you ban the brain's bad habits: those easy paths to pattern, synapses steady and familiar with the way you tend to deal. how do you grow beyond destructive proclivities, create compassionate ones in their place? how do you grow up for the sake of you, for the sake of love, for the sake of life?

the perfect shape of an impossible thing

as we flew home last night we found our mind wandering, pondering our closest friends. recently battling tough days (even tougher revelations) it's become to us quite clear: no one is possibly harder on themselves than a woman. work v craft. hobbies v passions. relationships, sometimes for the sake of them. crises and curiosities of fundamental identity. we exist in a vortex, challenges there constant: do more. think more. be more.

the quest for better often (unkindly) extends its reach to the relationship we have with our bodies, so many of us on a perpetual treadmill toward the unattainable. thinner. leaner. perkier. a little more here. a little less there. compares, contrasts (whether against subjects real or fantasy). catty comments purposed, hurled to hurt (the insults of the unimaginative).

only once have we ourself flirted a bit too heavily with the dangerous line, let focus morph to fixation as both our body (and our chi) slowly shrank away. first to go was the boobs: they are real, they are spectacular, and they are a leading indicator of our poundage. the rest of us quickly followed suit, until we all but resembled an eleven year old boy. not. hot.

the rest of the time our weight sits in direct proportion to our happiness: the more we have of one, the more of the other. our contentment inspires a little extra: dates spent dishing delectable, afternoons spent in bed when we should have been on the bosu. the lbs of love, heavy with happiness. hell, our man even asks for more: cultivate our curves, revel in our womanhood.

so what of the discrepancy, men finding feminine what women try maniacally to minimize? where went our raphaelite appreciation, disrupting long-standing definition of a beautiful body? we look around us (sticks for limbs, bones for bosom) and wonder why when where and how the fuck this became the norm? why anything but leaves some girls in despair, worried, shamed.

down with the notion that stick-thin (sick-thin) is desirable. down with your desire to look that way at all. brasandranties chooses to live healthy, live happy, live free from the bullying such bullshit imparts. instead we'll use our blogette to thus-declare: we are fucking beautiful, just as we are. we feel it. we look it. we know it. and we hope you know you're beautiful too.