Celebration of My Soup Coolers

Can I just say that my lips are pretty much, what we may refer to colloquially as, “the bomb.”  I remember being 13 (for some reason, this was my year as a teenage hottie), and one of my classmates opined exactly what my lips were meant for.  I was as uncomfortable with that as i was with the rest of my body (I did my best to hide my adolescent C cups until senior year).  I had somehow convinced myself that everything about me was vulgar, so I hid as much of myself as possible.  I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup until I was 16, and even then, if I wasn’t with my parents, I wore very pale shades.  It was as though i feared the power of my own (yet untapped) sexuality.

Then one day, I decided to get my face done at the makeup counter for shits and giggles.  When she went for the bold lipstick, I stopped her. I asked for something paler, softer.  “More, natural.”

“Well, honey, what kind of makeup artist would I be if I didn’t play up your best feature?”  I acquiesced and allowed her to apply the faintly scented creme to my lips, and looked in the mirror.  My lips looked like satin bed sheets, only twice as bold and inviting.  A few guys entered the mall as she applied the finishing touches, and one walked directly into a pole.  I stepped, nay floated, off the chair with an extra strut in my step, my head held high, fierce as hell.

it was no coincidence that i floated out of the mall that day with my first push-up bra and pair of daisy dukes.

The moral of this story?

Fuck what ya heard.  I’m the shit.

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