Two Fat Babes At The Naked Hot Springs (via Ravishly)

It all started with a text from my roomie, Kori: I am manifesting lying out, and getting some sun on my cooch.

As I mentioned two weeks ago, summer in San Francisco looks less like sundresses and icy glasses of lemonade, and more like taking a cruise into an oceanic abyss in late November off the coast of Maine.

I can hear foghorns. In the daytime. In California.

You know you’re in the presence of a tourist because they are wearing shorts and shivering, and you are giving them muffled directions through the scarf you’ve wrapped your face in to prevent frostbite

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