Okay, so I'm not proud to admit it, but I've been going a little hard on the alchohol lately. I'm ftm and I guess it triggered one of those weird-ass alchohol induced night terrors.

You see, in my dream, I had to go get a suit fitted for a funeral because someone choked to death on a chicken bone a la Mama Cass. The tailor was taking my measurements, every so often making the obligatory comment about "oh man, you really have that covid bod going on my dude, eat some fuckin celery".

At some point, he was like, "okay, can you take off your shirt?" and somewhat hesitantly, I did, and I shit you not, I take my fucking shirt off and for some reason I'm adorn in full fucking showgirl regalia. I'm standing half-naked in this fucking store and I'm wearing glitter and rhinestones and nipple tassels.

Obviously I'm kinda red faced about this and I'm like trying to cover my nipple tassels with my hands and the tailor is like "Dude, it's okay, I get it. Some of us are just born with nipple tassels." but he's trying to suppress his snickering and so I highly doubt his sincerity but respect his work ethic nonetheless.

I'm just like, "yeah, whatever, let's just get this over with" and then my fucking nipple tassels out of NOWHERE start spinning satanically on my chest. Like, these things were fucking MOTORIZED! And there's like glitter fucking flying everywhere and some of it lands in this guy's mouth and he's like choking on nipple confetti. He's like "get out of my fucking store", and I'm already fucking packing my shit while my nipple tassels slap me in the fucking face.

This all sounds silly, but I can't fucking describe the terror I felt throughout this whole entire ordeal. I swear to god, no cis person's brain is this talanted and frankly prodigal at conjuring up outlandish scenarios with which to terrorize and humiliate you.

I suppose that the moral of this story is that no, you will not magically grow motorized nipple tassels that spray glitter and confetti into the the gaping mouths of hapless bystanders if you go try to get your suit fitted. Your brain is just extrodinarily, supremely, uniquely fucked up and you desperately need to think more positive thoughts about yourself before you decompose into an inky, putrid, glutinous self-hatred monster.