we’ve received a number of emails over the past few months inquiring as to whether our family is aware that we author brasandranties, and how they’ve reacted to certain revelations en-blogette.
until recently we’d only had general feedback from the parental unit: a rather surprised declaration of appreciation for our writing and humor. support for breaking the mould and finding our voice. and a blind eye to our trangressions and penchant for mary jane (though our mum did need to be educated on the autre definition of roach – trust we aren’t that messy).
as such we’ve continued to live loud and without censorship; authentic confidence achieved only with an unapologetic sense of self. this is brasandranties, love us or leave us. until last week, that is.
turns out it may actually be a bit too much information to inform one’s seniored parents that you’ve had all of your poonani hair ripped out. this information apparently incites a disproportionate level of concern. and if you don’t answer your phone for 36hrs, parents may begin to theorize that you’ve in fact driven the boys to wildry, and have thus been stalked, raped and murdered as a result of said grooming declaration.
we are that we are. the blogette allows us to talk as friends, and that fact will never change.
but there’s some shit your dad probably needn’t know.