we remember it clearly. our only feedback to simply laugh. someone asking, in earnest: brasandranties is so reactive. don’t we worry about saying too much?

oh dear. friend it’s actually quite the opposite. these ranties our take on the matter only after we’ve calmed the beat, counted back from ten, theorized hypothesized philosophized with each wave of breath. in the nose. out the mouth. in other words, this is how we feel only after we’ve calmed the fuck down. leapt mightily toward the silver lining. found the good in it, despite our predilections.
such is the case for our silence, last week tossing enough grenades our way to leave us feeling battered. worn. if we’d had a hole we’d have buried down deep, plumage convincingly invisible as our head goes dark in the sand. however unfortunately, ours is much more complicated than the life of the ostrich. and so here we are.
despite our diatribes often tumbling from loose-lips (oh did you miss our recent drunken twitter rantie? shame) when it’s big it hurts. the words and emotions churn deep in our belly, drum up force, slam against the sides when we least expect it. but we can’t get them the fuck out. not done yet. still baking.
lucky for us (not sure about you) it appears our blogette block has been so removed. to come: our fashion week feedback (uh oh), a few of our favorite things, what the fuck happened with the website last week and prostitution en vogue.