In case you wondered, I am a woman. I have lady parts and
two of them are quite large. Let me tell you, they’re not my eyes like that
Zoey Deschanel or those chicks in mascara commercials. I don’t dig ‘em – let’s
get that clear. I mean, they’re all right. They’re not deformed too badly and
they’re kind of fun to play with and I get a kick out of it when lovers do
their thing with them, but mostly they are cumbersome. Buying bras is a shitty
experience. Every. Single. Time. Jogging, running and jumping rope are things I
have to do in private or else struggle to contain my rage so I don’t punch a bunch of
people’s eyes out for ogling. Something which I should not even be allowed to
get pissed about because I have been known to stare gape-mouthed at giant
and/or unrestrained bazungas. It’s just…well, when it’s me people stare at it
becomes a problem.
Anyway, I digress. It’s just hard to let go of a resentment
I’ve had since 3rd grade when these monsters first reared their nipple-covered
heads, like mounds of flesh wearing skull caps of sensitivity.
I just wanted to let you know that I’m a lady – not in the
fancy, well-bred sort of way – just in the sense that I have lady ‘nads and all
that comes with them. I’m sure you would’ve caught on but, you know, just in
case…
