To my obscene love for words (and tea)

This blog post is an omage to sitting in the checkered chair of my therapist’s office and squeezing the little rectangle pillow that always promises me comfort but isn’t big enough to make me feel held.

This blog post is an omage to sitting in the checkered chair of my therapist’s office and squeezing the little rectangle pillow that always promises me comfort but isn’t big enough to make me feel held.

This blog post is an omage to sitting in the checkered chair of my therapist’s office and squeezing the little rectangle pillow that always promises me comfort but isn’t big enough to make me feel held.

This blog post is an omage to sitting in the checkered chair of my therapist’s office and squeezing the little rectangle pillow that always promises me comfort but isn’t big enough to make me feel held.

This blog post is an omage to sitting in the checkered chair of my therapist’s office and squeezing the little rectangle pillow that always promises me comfort but isn’t big enough to make me feel held.

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This blog post is an omage to sitting in the checkered chair of my therapist’s office and squeezing the little rectangle pillow that always promises me comfort but isn’t big enough to make me feel held.

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