Can any of us be perfect at imperfection?
Why hello there. 1-800-HEYLAURA back in action after a needed hiatus. I switched over to Substack for a cleaner, more text-focused newsletter that looked a lot better on mobile — which, according to stats is where most of you read this. I took some time off from sending this newsletter out, realizing it didn’t serve me the way I needed it to. Below is a little more personal, more weird, more essays, more sex, more bodies but through my my POV.
This is a good point to say that you must be 18 and up to move forward . . . though that hasn’t stopped the entirety of under 18 humans to not do that. Also a good place to say: writers from the beginning of writing have spoken about their personal lives in their work: the good, the bad, the really really ugly. Can’t deal? All good, I’ll see you another time! Want to read the old versions? You can find those here.
Perfection is a warped Clearasil ad that tells us that if we don’t have a Disney vagina or a flat stomach or secret money or douching or a running schedule or the best skincare or a velvet green couch with a record collection and a soft, flowy house dress than we might as well hide under a rock. Here are a few of my favorite imperfections that are actually perfect:
Inner thighs. You’re allowed to have acne and hair and scars and discoloration.
Low sex-drive. We’re in a pandemic, everything feels crazy, your intensions are being misconstrued. It’s okay to not want to have an orgasm.
Bellies. I have a love-hate-hate-hate-sorta like-love relationship with mine. And the only reason I do is because I’ve been taught it’s imperfect, that it doesn’t have value. It does. Yours does as well.
Box-hair dye.
Butt acne. You sit all day, your butt rubs against porous clothing, you workout in spandex, and you’re like, “Oh my gosh, how could this happen to me?!!” It happens.
WFH Perks
Bathroom breaks are infinite. No more fear of bleeding onto a corporate chair.
Giving up structured clothing. They never wanted me anyways so why keep giving straight-leg denim a shot?
Crying at desk is significantly more acceptable.
No more low-stress hum in your consciousness about eating in front of others.
I’ll Never Be Perfect, And It’s Not Okay (mini essay)
I do not not do a good job. A imperfect perfectionist through and through. I’ve always been this way even as a kid . . . giving 700000000000%, trying to have my output be amicable, cheery, ideal — never a reason to dismiss me in any circumstance. Even now, I will go out of my way to inconvenience myself before I ever put even the slightest burden on others.
I watched my brother die at 5, my parents leave at 6, my fatness be a reason for friends to not be my friends (all the time), switching schools and homes and hairstyles in order to be the best version of myself to everyone else’s liking. The constant need for perfection in an imperfect glass casing surrounded by pristine ideals of what I should be.
In a more recent non-sexual, sorta sexual, completely impactful encounter, I consensually put on a blindfold so that I could, again . . . consensually, be hit relentlessly until I didn’t feel guilty for existing. I imagined everyone who I ever made upset or angry or ruffled by my existence surrounding me laughing until I cried: I’m so sorry I exist. I’m so sorry I’m imperfect.
Found Found Found
Roxane Gay: How to Write About Love on the LGBTQ&A podcast — For a queer women to accurately describe lusty dynamics makes me feel warm inside.
Sciatic Cocktail: Water, ice, few drops of SciatiGon-S, & Wellness Tonic w/ CBD. I’ve never been more of a brat in my life than when experiencing pain from my back to my knees.
Twitter porn.
Egle Zvirblyte makes me feel good.
Temporary Stay / p1
Marion smiled at the server. He placed her cappuccino atop the glass-rimmed table, clinking on impact with a crystal-clear view of the tops of her thighs. Pushed together underneath her dress. Leopard shoes poking out from under the seat.
"Merci.” Marion was shy in her delivery. While the looked the part, she did not in fact live on Rue de Navarin. A temporary stay. A find yourself trip. While this was her week vacation, she plotted how she would leave her job back in New York — 5 and 1/2 years at the same company. She was a different woman from when she started and feeling completely demoralized by you should be happy to be here attitude she endured the entire time. When the server glanced down, her notebook was filled with scribbles akin to that of a poet or a mad scientist.
”You’re welcome,” he said back to her. “Let me know if I can get you anything,” and he walked to the counter inside the cafe. She was at ease. Her high school French was subpar and not something she wished to butcher in front of any French person let alone the one serving her cappuccino — and someone so very good-looking as well.
(part 2 to come)
1-800-HEYLAURA is a weekly newsletter dedicated to body image, sexual wellness, life, butts, confidence, and so much weirdo stuff. Note, Laura doesn’t take responsibility for your life and actions. She’s just an odd person on the internet that deeply wants to write everything in her heart and genitalia and flesh. Some links:
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