She knew who Hazard was. Even more….who she was.
The black curtain fell down.
And all she saw was this…something of measures. Something Bloom’n managed to maniuplate still…strategically dodging her most strident measures possible and instead occupying herself with this bit of ridiculous diversion: The “societal” measures, the best-est, nice-est shield to hide behind yeah. Because, her mind screamed, Don’t Get too Close to the REAL Me Otherwise!
And still the root of the issue begged to be unearthed. She flew beyond the Table to the World complete with Hazard and Sprocket and an absentee waitress. And instead, Bloom’n arrived at her entire current existence…
The measure wasn’t how much square footage Bloom’n lived in, all comfy and secluded in her own little world.
The measure wasn’t the value of her annual income, all self-defining in the footnote of the human resources electronic payslip.
The measure wasn’t the inches of her bosom or her hips, or the length of her hair, or the size or girth of her fantasy cock if she ever once thought to measure herself along the lines of the rulestick used by society for the past innumerable decades. No offense, guys. But it’s a fairly inconsistent measure.
The *true* measure was this: how honest was Bloom’n truly. To stand unafraid, and un- sheltered. Naked in the bright noon hour’s day, with every fatal flaw exposed for all the world to see.
And could she still…be loved. More than that…could she still love herself, warts and all.
That, my friends, was the measure.
That, my friends…still is. And for no one moreso than Bloom’n herself.
(Really…you think you got it all right? Really. Go look in the mirror again. Tell yourself that one, one more time again. Look bravely now. Look deeply. And tell me again. You got it right? Really? Yeah. If you’re human, you’re not bull shitting me. If you aren’t human, well, it’s another story entirely. The point is…who defines what is reality really?)