disappointment is a wish

tits out 2026

Wednesday night I put on my clingy little 90s dress, black go-go boots, and silver hoops.

I dusted glitter in my hair, which I blow-dried real frizzy and big. The dogs snoozed, blissfully unaware of the fireworks booming and fizzling outside. New Year’s Eve had come, and I’d been craving this night all week.

Big Sweetie Fiancé (BSF) and I headed to a house party, shook ass while scream-singing with friends, took polaroids, toasted with seltzers and laughed and kissed and hugged. Stopped at the local barcade for a 90s/2000s dance party. DJ played Missy Elliott and Destiny’s Child and Rihanna and Daft Punk and Lil Jon. Kissed at midnight under the lasers and lights and came home sweaty and happy and fell asleep curled up together, tuckered and satisfied and in love.

I fuckin wish.

What actually happened is that I gave my senior dog her sleepy pills, tucked the puppy into his crate, showered and did my hair real big. Put on my dress and boots and hoops. Opened my hair glitter and paused.

The first booms sounded outside. At first, nothing. The puppy lifted his head, Hunter’s snoring stopped. BSF and I exchanged a look, holding our breaths. There was a moment of perfect silence. Then, eruption. Hunter’s bark lifted her little potato body from her drug-induced slumber as Louie joined in from his crate, pawing at its door and shrieking. This, of course, only escalated Hunter. She howled and hurled herself to the windows, to the walls, til the sweat dropped down our balls trying to soothe her.

And soothed she was, for about 45 minutes until the next booms came. On and on it went, until I eventually changed back into my sweats, rolled Hunter into a blanket, carried her to bed, and pet her trembling body until 1:30am. I fell asleep wholly disappointed, weepy, and mad at BSF for not magically making our house sound-proof, becoming a DJ and putting on a private living room dance party for me, or being a vet who could up my dog’s dose without accidentally killing her.

No friends. No music-induced euphoria. No ass shaking. No midnight kiss.

Ah, yes, another New Year’s Eve gone perfectly to plan.

from last year - this is the energy I was going for!

I don’t experience disappointment on that level very often and thank christ because it was, frankly, fucking embarrassing. Here’s a glimpse into my brain around 11:30pm:

All I wanted to do was go dancing, GOD! (teenage-style despairing)

I looked ugly in my stupid dress anyway, I’ll never go dancing again! (self-loathing, psychosis)

That’s it, I’m walking to the neighborhood bar alone, I’m getting out of here! (denial, avoiding)

Why isn’t BSF FIXING IT?! (blaming)

Fireworks should be illegal everywhere! (smart, wise, correct)

The whole year is ruined! (big time catastrophizing)

The next morning, it was easy to see that this outcome was always a possibility. Hunter is 12, and I’ve been sacrificing or pivoting plans for that boom-phobic little scruff potato for over a decade.

It’s also not lost on me that what I’m describing is so small a thing: boo hoo, baby didn’t get her night of dancing because the dogs she loves and willingly adopted needed her.

But in my desperate desire to feel alive again, to feel sexy and connected and hopeful, to sing Get Low with strangers on a sweaty dance floor, to kiss BSF with abandon in public, I lost sight of the obvious potential for implosion. I needed one particular outcome, and I needed it bad.

Now, as I type this, I know there is time.

I know my disappointment is actually a wish, an arrow. Pointing me toward my bone-deep desires: Movement and aliveness and connection. Community and embodiment. Lil Jon and the East Side Boyz. Shaking ass and kissing BSF.

I don’t do resolutions, but if I’m taking one thing with me into the new year, it’s that arrow. Pointing me, shoving me in the direction of my desires.

And, when the dogs allow it, I will go.

my sweet scruff potatoes, Hunter (L) and Louie (R)

criers to the comments 👇🏻

I lied! Between us criers, I actually do have one lone New Year’s resolution, which is to have my tits out more.

Look, life is hard, and I’m not referring to canceled NYE plans. Capitalism has us pinching our romance pennies! Fascism and seasonal depression are killing everyone’s boner! My mammaries aren’t gonna be this cute forever! So I’m doing myself and everyone else a favor and showing more cleave in 2026. If you catch me out here looking a little ~ exposed ~ you’re welcome!

Your turn, criers. Are you joining me for Tits Out 2026 or is there another slutty little intention you’re setting? Or maybe your tits are out already, in which case thank you for your service and you’re excused from all resolution fuss.

next week!

🥲crying/😵‍💫numbing/💥sparking #17, in which I share some things I’ve been crying over, what’s numbing and distracting me, and most importantly what’s sparking me tf UP.

🖤 liking, sharing, or commenting on this post helps me reach more criers. thank you for these small but crucial acts of support.