Bras and nosebleeds

November 01, 2016

Okay I need to document the absurdity of this moment that happened today for prosperity (or for the hilarity of potential hackers and the like). So bra shopping at H&M, Phoebe and I are in the delightful process of catching up on each other's lives, while sharing a change-room and getting undressed. It has excellent fluorescent lighting above the mirror that shows all the redness of my dribbled/post-lunch face and every pimple I didn't know I possess, and just as I'm commenting on my false sense of poor hygiene and skin care regime, my nose starts to bleed. Both of us are in our bras, barely able to think straight and know what to do. Phebes, thinking it will stop in a few minutes, goes and gets me another size of the bra I am trying on. Meanwhile my nose has other plans, it doesn't stop, it really just keeps on bleeding and pouring, nearly soaking my two [eating] cloths. I get Phebes to take the bra I'm wearing off, so it doesn't get blood on it. And I am like "sorry, this is mighty annoying, just carry on", so she tries on her selection of bras. Once we finish with the change-room, we try to remove all traces of blood with my Wet-ones , but I can't say the same for my face, I look like I just feasted on a wild animal, in going up to pay. That, my friends, is just one way that my body rebels and creates an abjection out of commercialised femininity.