obsession.

I wanted boobs more than anything when I was little. Sometimes on Thursday night when Dad came to take my siblings and me out for dinner, I’d make him drive behind the grocery stores scouting out apple crates. When I’d spot one, I’d plead for him to stop the car just long enough for me to fling open the door, dash out, and snatch the purple molded cardboard crate, and jump back in, yelling, “GO!” as if he were my getaway driver. I’d take the crates home, cut out two connected molded cups, and staple plastic newspaper binding tape to them in order to make straps for my back and shoulders. I’d wear it as a bra under my clothes, granting myself the confidence that comes along with boobs, not realizing that people would know they weren’t authentic on my four-year-old body.