big boob cowgirl vol. 16

grappling with the unknown

Hello dear reader! This week we have guest submissions from so many boobs! We have Hannah’s predictions for 2025, stuff about oranges by Kate, an anonymous submission about animals, something about space by Sal, a love letter to a little ballet dancer by Jet, and Ashlon’s reasons to live! I hope you enjoy everything written today!

Comment what you are feeling existential about this december!

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Hannah’s December 2024 W.E.R.T.

Watching: How to Get Away with Murder with Ashlon (iykyk)

Eating: My current food fixation is cold sesame noodles with major peanut sauce.

Reading: Salem’s Lot by Stephen King…a bit too much exposition/world building for me tbh but I’m enjoying it for spooky winter time!

Trying: D&D! My roommate and his friends were kind enough to let me join their campaign and I am absolutely loving it.

Some Predictions for 2025:

1. A new dating experience is going to come out. Like, some sort of in-person space where people come together and do an activity. Maybe it’ll be something like Nick and Vanessa Lachay fund a public pod space where people can do their own Love Is Blind experimenting…

2. Ryan Murphy releases a limited series on Netflix about the United Healthcare shooter, starring Dave Franco.

3. Yuzu-flavored drinks have their moment.

4. Sims 5 is released and it combines the graphics of Sims 4 with the open world of Sims 3 and the heart and soul of Sims 1 and 2 (manifesting this even though EA put it on hold lol).

Still life of an orange. by Kate Crescenzo

"Yes the tears came out like juice and sugar from the fruit."

The acidity burnt the skin of my shredded lips,
Bleeding from my bites. The electric saccharinity and blood
Mixed in my mouth. This produce will reduce my tongue to numbness. Sores

Erupt within my mouth, Pulp
Lodges itself in my teeth, I cannot suck it out.
Our fruit has fermented.
It rots on the countertop. The skin constricts the juice out

Into a mucus. It collapses from It's ripe beginnings,

A life I fail to remember.

You bit into It's putrid flesh, swallowing

Flies and chewing on globules of mold, smiling
Telling me not to lie to myself.
You did not know me.
Ripping the orange off the tree does not make it yours.
Piercing the peel with your baby teeth does not make you a man.
Thumbing away the rind until you reach the hollow center does not mean
You understand the seed that suffocated in soil.
Squeezing It's insides until your glass is full, telling me to

Drink, will not make us whole again.
I thought I might be incomplete,
If I did not swallow your entirety. I know now I would wither from within.
I smear my lips in ChapStick and gurgle
Your taste out of my mouth, spit you down the drain.

I brush my teeth and hope to scrub
Your stains from my enamel, I want you to disappear.
There's still pulp in my teeth.

Reflections on Mortality & Impatience by anonymous

“I think that’s the 10th one we’ve passed now…” my brother says. He’s tallying up the number of dead deer we’ve passed along the highway. He’s right, and it’s an unusually high number. We’re on hour 2 of 9 on our drive back to Virginia. “pobrecitos…. will you hand me a red bull please?”

A few months ago, my sister let me know a family of geese were intentionally run over while crossing the street by an impatient driver. I cry and although I know it’s wrong and would accomplish nothing, I wish the driver the same fate. I’m thinking of them now as we see the deer scattered along the median.

Does the awareness of our looming death coincide with humanity’s constant need to rush, to control, to beat Life at its own game?

Did these deer and geese know their fate, did they sense death was near? And in their final moments, what did they see?

“What will I see when I die?” It’s 4am and I’ve woken up for no apparent reason. I roll over and imagine myself as nothing. A void, ceasing to exist, a vacuum. I want to believe I will continue on in some shape or form. I want to believe my partner and I will find each other after death. For now, I believe that as our brains shut down, memories will crash into each other, forming mutant versions of our lives. Replaying and reforming over and over again.

One summer night, my partner and I take a walk around our neighborhood. Too bothered by the heat and the bugs, she doesn’t notice what she almost steps into. I reach my arm across and stop her. We peer down, and then back at each other in silence. I couldn’t see where the bottom of the manhole ended.

tomorrow by Salvador Vasquez

the next day always feels so scary and big. we wake and gently ask for more space. “how’s it going?” seems too insensitive or inviting to spew- we settle on nods. you’re here, im here which means something is still standing. holding breaths and existing in a pause, we stare. do you mind if im here? can you share or give some space, willingly? an extending hand gives in. again-

Death&Ballet by Jet Jameson

The barre’s lacquer has worn over the years, and you absentmindedly run your thumb over the splintered wood, over and over, paying little attention to the combination being prescribed. You’ll snap to when your teacher counts you in, and rely on years of practice to fake your way through tendus.

You’ll adjust your tights repeatedly as you wait your turn in adage. Do you look thinner with the waist over the crest of your hips, or should the elastic waistband rest just against your belly button?

Your hips have expanded in the last several years, and as you extend from a passé derriere to arabesque, you notice the round of muscle that’s become your ass. You’re older now than you once were.

It’s open level class, and it’s 7 pm on a Tuesday, so you’re surrounded by a few over-achieving company members, mostly modern dancers attempting to stay in ballet shape. There are several older women in class. Women who’ve gone on to have children. Settled down, stiffened up. If you were to voice this quiet hatred you felt for your body, they’d wave a dismissive hand, while shaking their head knowingly.

So many of us, destined for disappointment.

There is a discipline ballet requires that most cannot maintain. While your peers beef up their college applications with varsity sports and after-school volunteering, your one-track mind reveals you to be a self-centered obsessive, consumed by what harms you most.

Sip of water, strip off warm-ups, lace up your shoes. The weight of the shoe’s box like pockets full of rocks.

Ballet to most is pink tutus and tiaras. So few recognize the sweat-drenched lycra, the rivulets of blood staining pink satin, the human sacrifice. It had once been love.

You’re reminded of such as you notice the younger students spectating class from the viewing loft above. Their cherub-like faces pressed to the glass, their soft figures not yet broken, their spirits undisturbed.

Your calf siezes in pain. You’re vaguely aware of it but more importantly, your focus is aimed at your whiplashed spot in the mirror. You turn, whipping your leg around in a panicked a la seconde, and with each revolution, your body agonizes.

Ballet is a near-death experience, especially when it comes to allegro. Your heart desperately pounds against your rib cage, as though it’s demanding to be free. Year after year more of your peers fall against its sharpened sword. The hours become too laborious, the competition too fierce, the pain no longer worthwhile.

Those who’ve remained have withered away, as though the life that once tickled their cheeks, and curled their eyelashes had, like their shoes, been ground into resin boxes, slammed against door frames.

There is no intervention against ballet. Sure, some have been forced to leave, their parents citing fallen grades, or in more extreme cases, drastic drops in weight. But ballet is a force stronger than any human will, much like any art. Only its sacrifice is more painstakingly obvious.

But still, you follow the steps in time

pas de bourée, preparé, pirouette en dehours, pas de bourrée, glissade, saut de chat

Why be such a devotee for something so fleeting? Is there such deep fulfillment in a well-executed variation? Is it so glorious, the pound of applause against your eardrums, your head tipped to the floor in a curtsied reverence?

There are so many questions. Why do we behave the way we do? Why do we fall in love? Why do we reach for each other? Why do we suffer in silence? Why are we all so consumed with living, when death’s call is always so near?

In a world of pre-determination, ballet is as close to death as one can sanely be, without kicking down its door.

Your heart against your ribs, your ribbons cutting into skin, blood pooling at your feet, every muscle of your being singing out in agony, the siren’s song, so alluring.

The young girls' faces and the older women’s knowing looks

All destined for decay.

Alive in death.

Odette leaps. The Swan dies.

And why?

brie sandwich by ashlon

Things society says to live for:

Grinding for the corporate man

Longing for motherhood

Buying clothes from the internet

Things to actually live for:

Brie sandwich with fig jam and arugula

Hot cinnamon tea

Finding a new favorite song

Seeing friends you haven’t seen in a long time

Cleaning your room and then lighting a candle

When dogs find spots of sunlight in a room to lay in

Brushing your teeth with someone else in a bathroom (love or friendship or both)

Waking up to a kiss

When you hug someone and their perfume reminds you of your grandma

Sleepovers

Friends that are like magic

Remembering the horrors and being glad it is now and not then

A matcha latte when it is green and not (the horrors i was referring to) when it taste like dirt