Everything Can Just Fuck Off

Is there some convention for NSFW blog post titles? Not that I care really. I swore in that title because I am hateful in a special, special way.

Optimism is stupid. Bra-making is stupid. My sewing machine is stupid. All sewing machines of the world are stupid as are all bra patterns. Most people are stupid. Even pets and babies are stupid. (I will not retract that inflammatory statement at this juncture.)

In case you're wondering, I made the next bra and it failed and now I kind of want to kill myself. That's bra 16, in case you're counting. I suppose if I were dangerously suicidal, I'd make it about something more relevant than my continual inability to sew a bra that fits. But honestly, I have failed. Yet again. Writ large. In front of the world and, worse still, in my own eyes. And I'm done (potentially for as much as 18 months).

I thought I was getting closer. Maybe I was. In some ways, this latest prototype is closer to fitting than ever. In others, formerly ways in which fit was flawless, now things are worse. Quick word to the wise (though if you are trying to make a bra that fits you are obviously stupid): One cannot decide to affix upper cups behind straps when one's clone pattern doesn't follow that convention and one is 15-ways flummoxed by every change one makes and what one is doing and how it impacts everything else.

To make matters more fun, I can no longer pretend that my machine is going to rally from whatever tension issues it is currently experiencing. Oh, I know, we ALL have tension issues. But my machine needs some extreme bodywork (or maybe drugs). Of course, having never had a machine serviced - and not having a car - I am particularly apprehensive about sorting it all out. I would happily pay a premium to have some special machine-fixer come to my house and take care of it on the spot. Come to think of it, I'd likely pay an absurd amount of money to save myself the time, trouble and stress. I mean, really, I spent 200 bucks this month on bra supplies and that yielded nothing. Imagine if it actually fixed my machine without so much as having to lock the front door. Remind me to tell you, sometime, about how nervous I am to approach new things requiring intra-city travel. It's yet another example of stupidity.

On the plus side, I suppose this will give me a chance to start writing about something with a little bit of curb appeal. I saw my naturopath yesterday and that was vaguely interesting. I also bought a terrific top (more to come). And there are some fabulous RTW bras on the horizon, as evidenced by posts I've read recently about the coming lingerie season, care of Curve Expo (like the fashion shows but for bras). Note: I am in awe of those designers and, if I weren't so grateful for their offerings, I'd fucking hate them too.

Alas, for now, you can imagine me, lying deflated on the floor, neck muscles contracted up the yin yang, everything seeming so futile.

Really, my brain does not like to be thwarted.