Wednesday, October 31, 2012


I got a request for boobs. While I was in line for Star Tours. Not to see them, which is the normal form a request for boobs takes, or to play with them,  or whatever. You know what people like to do with boobs. But it was not about any of that, and that’s good, since the request was from my sister and I’m not up for intensive therapy right now.
So I’m going to talk about my boobs because I know them the best. Sorry, I’m straight. They’re good boobs overall, and they have gotten me some good stuff over the years, lots of free drinks,  some sex, and were possibly the deciding factor in my getting credit for a college course that I neglected to take. They’ve been the focal point of many Halloween costumes, including both bad/sexy/in heat kitty and dominatrix (it’s surprising how versatile a skintight vinyl jumpsuit is), as year after year I celebrated both the holiday and my right, nay my duty, to parade around in the sluttiest costume possible. The year I was a slutty genie, they saved me from a ticket for running a red light (on a dare), and from incarceration, because I was underage and drunk. Older, wiser, moving on.
But they’re not as young as they used to be. When they were as young as they used to be, older women hated me wherever I went. One place I went anyway. One time. But it was traumatic. I was sixteen and working retail, so obviously I was minding my own business and doing the bare minimum I needed to do not to get fired. Anyway, I was wearing this little black and white spandex dress (there’s no way I’m going to justify that with a decade), and this woman, I don’t remember if I was helping her or not, I hope not because she didn’t deserve help, except of the mental health variety because she was disturbed, asked me if I was wearing a bra. I’m not even going to get into why you shouldn’t ask minors about their undergarments, or lack thereof, I’m going to skip to the part that happened after I admitted that I was not wearing one. She said, “I hate you.” And she said it vehemently. Again, I was sixteen. I was a child. She had to have been at least fifty. And she told a poor little girl with big, perky boobs that she hated her for no good reason.  And that girl was baffled. I totally get it now. But there was no reason for her to be a bitch about it.
So although they are not sixteen anymore, the boobs probably could still get me free stuff if I were so inclined, but it doesn’t seem worth it anymore, it seems like a waste of time to hang  out with someone who would give me free stuff just because they like my boobs. And when did that happen? Seriously, when did I become that girl. Why would I want to do something for myself, if there’s a possibility that someone might do it for me? What the fuck is that about? It’s aggravating. And it’s not like I’m brilliantly self-sufficient. I’m barely self-sufficient. I’m kind of ineptly self-sufficient. We’re all alive here, and everyone has eaten today, but sometimes Napoleon eats my underwear and I don’t think that’s something that happens to people who really have everything together. Their underwear is safely in the hamper. But the electricity has stayed on all summer, thanks to my white knuckle bill paying (none of the money was earned with the help of my boobs), so we never went without air conditioning, which is important here because it's the desert.
The moral of the story is I used to have amazing boobs, and now I have the pride and self respect that come with buying my own drinks at the bar. Except I usually just drink at home, it’s more peaceful and I can keep an eye on Napoleon because he’s a fucking maniac. Oddly enough, I wouldn’t switch back. Not that it wasn’t great. So gather your rosebuds, and free Cuervo shots, and if you can get away without wearing a bra, don’t fucking wear one. See ya next week.