Racked is no longer publishing. Thank you to everyone who read our work over the years. The archives will remain available here; for new stories, head over to Vox.com, where our staff is covering consumer culture for The Goods by Vox. You can also see what we’re up to by signing up here.
This past February, I went to a friend's wedding in Brazil. She made me (read: encouraged me in congenial manner) buy a thong bikini. I wrote way, way too much about how it made me feel. Below are the essay's alternative heds, which did not make the cut for reasons:
My Thong Song
My Thong Song (Like My Swan Song But With 100% More Butts)
Another Navel Gazing Bikini Story
A Thong Day's Journey Into Night
Panic at the Butt Beach Party
Literally Airing Out My Grievances. What I'm Saying Is I'm Wearing a Thong, People.
Sorry, Did Someone Ask for 1500 Words About My Butt?
The Unbearable Lightness of Being in a Thong Bikini
Our Butts, Ourselves
Same Old Thong and Dance
The Thong and Short of It
Butt Stuff But Not That Kind of Butt Stuff