Disassembly Required

Fuck bras. For real.

This used to be my bra.

For several months, i have been wearing this bra even though the wire on the right side had snapped. My extra-clever good buddy, let's call her LadyButt, told me about a hack she saw where you cut maxi pads and stick them to the inside of your bra so the wire doesn't poke you. So i did that and for many months it worked. Earlier this week, however, the wire sort of started migrating and popping out in different places. Yesterday at work BOTH snapped ends not just poked me, but actually cut me in 5 places on my side boob and armpit. So i got pissed. Then i grabbed tools. I performed a wire-ectomy while laughing manically and ranting about fixing wagons. Then i put it back on to experience that "Ahhhh..." moment. Which promptly turned to an "Oh my fuck!" moment when i looked in the mirror. Now my tits are normal, which is to say somewhat assymetrical, HOWEVER, one wired boob and one unwired boob is a look that even i have too much vanity with which to walk around. So i had to pull the other damn side apart. 

Alas, the tit sling is useless. It makes my boobs squeeze all over in weird lumpy ways. It feels one million times better but when i look down and see that crazy little middle third boob strangeness, it does not call to mind the sexy alien lady from "Total Recall". I think of my friend Fish's mom who has tremendously large and pendulous breasts and how bras aren't made for that shit so she always had "3rd boobage overflow", as my high school girlfriends and i called it.  I don't want to go to there. All i want is a bra that fits AND isn't going to draw my fucking blood. Is that too much to ask?

And, in case you're wondering, my right boob has snapped every single underwire in every single bra i've bought since 2004. My titter will not be caged! Only, yes it will because i run the show. Got that, bitch tit? I sentence you to a new bra.

Wise Old Six-Year-Old

I work at a before and after school program. There is a game that, as far as i can tell, every 4th grade girl has played since the beginning of time: MASH. You know, M for mansion, A for apartment, S for shack, and H for house? [Interesting development: the S now stands for sewer, as of this week apparently.] Anyway, then you have all these catagories to fill in like who you'll marry, where you'll live, what your job will be, how many kids you'll have, etc. You or your "game master" or some combination of the two pick 4 or 5 things to fill in each catagory. Then all but one of each thing are systematically eliminated by counting by a random number and crossing off stuff and your future is no longer a mystery. Earlier this week i played and had the best future ever wherein i married Neil Patrick Harris (who is my spirit animal). Sure, we lived in the sewer but who cares? We also had 2 kids, which NPH already has so my vagina was a winner too.

Yesterday i played again with two little girls who somehow managed to predict a most vile future for me. I marry a coworker (he's actually a pretty good looking dude but he's 13 years younger than me - i have limits) and i become an astronaut, so it wasn't all bad. However, we will live in a sewer and drive a poop truck, his job will be "pooper" (lucky we live in a sewer then, huh?), and we'll have a pet alligator (also appropriate) and 60 kids. Sixty. At least we have a good sex life? They wrote a song then a rap and teased me about it all day. I was also hanging out with a little 1st grader who was terribly upset about the prospect of me living in a sewer married to a pooper and driving my 60 kids around in a poop truck. During the sing-song mocking she got very quiet. After i sent the twosome over to another coworker to share their beautiful ballad, this little girl turns to me in all seriousness and says the wisest stuff-

     "I have come up with 3 ways to make sure that never happens. If he askes you to marry him, say no. Don't go to astronaut school, ever. Don't move out of your house. No, 4 ways - don't ever sell your car. If you do, buy the same car again." And then, the kicker, "It's hard enough to take care of 3 kids. Just ask my mom. So never, ever have more than three kids. Oh, and do not buy an alligator. Five ways."

She kills me! But really, she's right. Next time i get all weirdy about where i'll be in five years all i have to do is think of the worst place i could be and just not do the things that will lead me there. She's going to run the world some day.

Cereal. Not cereal.

Ok, so, "Sorry. Not sorry"? I've been saying, "Kidding. Not kidding" a lot lately and a couple people appreciated it, but mostly i think people were just trying not to punch me. Well, now there's "Cereal. Not Cereal."

It's not something you say so much as a sad, sad part of being me. I eat a lot of cereal. But it's not cereal so much as two things, one solidy and one liquidy, that i mix up in a bowl and eat with a spoon, often when i'm very drunk. There's been partially melted peanut butter with chocolate chips stirred in, cottage cheese with crumbled doritos, saltines with alfredo (no noddles, man),  cheese sauce with tuna, and chopped up hot boiled eggs with perhaps a titch too much butter. There was the wheat thins in ranch. None of these are things i eat more than once. I mean, they are sickening while they happen and i only feel even worse later on. But last night i found a cereal, not cereal that i may have to experience again. Half a jar of turkey gravy heated till nuclear-hot with toast chunks stirred in. Actually, it was just bread because i was too impatient to wait for the toaster.

Or maybe, i'll just buy some milk and gawddamn shredded wheat because that's all i wanted in the first place.