Hairy woman blog

Added: Elma Padilla - Date: 08.09.2021 11:09 - Views: 21562 - Clicks: 2024

These yoga people.

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They get on my nerves. Rolling their special mats out, like their butts are too good to sit on the free ones that come with their gym membership.

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No, they have to have purple and pink mats that match their special purple and pink outfits, their striped leggings, their purple sockies with Velcro ankle straps and slots for their individual toes to slide in Why? What the fuck for? Not me. Stop analyzing me, I said. I moved to Philadelphia as soon as I could and left it all far behind me. I was only a kid at the time. This really nice lady who lived all by herself in a house with five bedrooms took me home after she saw me in the newspaper; I liked her, and she liked me, and she started to adopt me but then she got cancer and had to give me back, so after that I went to foster children picnics where people watched us like animals in a zoo as we played on swings and threw softballs, trying to look like normal children who would be good for adoption; like puppies in the pound, they tried to see who was trainable, who would shit on the floor or in hairy woman blog bed, who was the bad puppy, who would turn out to be a drug addict, who would rob them blind or shoot them in their sleep.

So my social worker got all red in the face and put her arm around me, and that felt wonderful. That was all she could do, I guess. I appreciated it. It felt good, like she was really on my side in secret. This is some weird-ass yoga, not the regular kind. I chose this class because I like the sound of that, reminds me of cunnilingus. I smile every time I think of that. She loves it as much as I do. The class starts with a chant. Hairy woman blog have to sit in a cross-legged position, which my basketball-damaged knees do not appreciate, and sing a fucking chant: Ong Namo Guru Dev Namowhatever the fuck that means.

I take coaching well. All my basketball coaches said so. So I mumble-chant along like the good sport I am. I can already tell who the assholes are in the class and who the real people are. After a long, terrible dating history, I finally found a real one.

The psychic told me I would. I believed the psychic, because she knew all about my exes without me telling her a thing; she described them all like she was watching a horror movie of my life.

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That one with the pent-up dog, that big dog in that little crate, the psychic said. You never had anything to talk about once you got out of bed. So true, but I hated to admit it. The psychic knew about the ex who had a new face sewn on her when her real face got ripped off in a bicycle accident, said she liked to keep me on my toes, yanking me this way and that, said I never knew which end was up with that one, and she was so right.

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I hate the hipster dude in front of me. Man bun on top of his head. What a jerk.

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I love the old black lady next to me. She reminds me of a neighbor lady who lived next door to one of my foster homes; she baked cookies and slipped them to me every day after school, asked me to show her my good grades, so I started to get good grades so I could run home and show her the big red A on my paper and get extra cookies. I loved her. This old yoga lady next to me throws her legs up in the air and farts. We smile at each other. I might fart later, who knows?

This is boring. The music is creepy. She said it was extremely detoxifying, that it would cleanse us emotionally and physically. Meanwhile, this Indian guy on her iPod is chanting what sounds like:. Thank God—I hate women with groomed pubes. It looks so stupid. Before I sleep with a woman I want assurance that she looks like a woman down there.

If they ask why, I tell them, I like a natural woman. Hairy woman blog what you will about me, but I do try to be honest. The rest of the shit I get charged with is true, though. At least I do know how to show a woman a good time. The women are all too skinny or too old. My girlfriend is quite perfect.

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We go for long rides down to South Jersey, head for the shore, walk on the boardwalk, eat beach fries and pizza; now does anything on earth taste better? We have so much fun together. Everyone fights, right? She says go deep inside, figure it out, then come back and practice with her. God, that melts me down to my core. I want everything with her. This class is never going to end. Now the teacher has us dancing. You heard me.

She says try to keep your eyes closed, find your inner solid spot, and let the earth hold you up. It sounds like they love each other very much and they are very happy right now to be singing, and they sing this jaunty good-feeling meaningless song right at me. Crazy guru shit coming down on me and making me emotional. I am not making this up. Act tough and you at least have a chance. No one squats in modern-day America. I feel like someone could push me over when I squat; I feel weak and vulnerable to attack. Like someone in this pussy yoga class would attack me. I look around at all the other people in my yoga class, and I see them struggling to squat and stand, squat and stand, squat and stand.

I sure as fuck do. Corpse pose; I can do that—flat on my back at last. Not me; I got this. I can play dead like a pro; I can close my eyes and listen; I can wait this out. I open my eyes and see everyone else doing it, no one else has rolled over on their belly to protect themselves, no one else has crossed their arms over their breasts to shield them, so I take a deeper breath and focus on stopping the tears from rolling down my face. Why are they here? Why am I crying for my life? Teacher says we close every Kundalini class with the Sunshine Song, because our guru wants us to.

So, like none of that other bullshit was enough, now we have to sing along, like a kindergarten class learning our ABCs. We put our hands in the prayer position, folded hairy woman blog our hearts, and sing about sun, love, light, and finding our way home, and it hurts to sing those words; it hurts my mouth; it hurts my eyes; it hurts my heart so much.

She holds on to me as tight as I hold on to her; she feels like a big strong tree I have barreled into, a beautiful solid tree you can fucking count on, and that was my first Kundalini class. Hell yes, I will go back. To connect: WebsiteTwitterInstagramFacebook.

Photo by Hipnosapo Peres on Foter. Before Class Starts These yoga people. Class Begins This is some weird-ass yoga, not the regular kind. Ten Minutes In Hairy woman blog is boring. Twenty Minutes In This class is never going to end. Forty Minutes In I am not making this up.

The Last Pose Corpse pose; I can do that—flat on my back at last.

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