Venting.

Okay, I have to get something off my chest….and I don’t mean that as a pun—although its not a bad one as far as puns go (I’ve never been all that impressed with puns as a joke genre…especially since most of them seem to pop out in the middle of a conversation, stop the whole flow of intelligent thought and tickle the funny bone of whatever fifty year old is in the room. Seriously though, why do all of our parents love puns?). Boobs. Men love them, which comes in handy for me since I have an imposing pair of Ds. That’s right, D for Delicious and D for Dumb. I have found that they can be both. They are delicious for Ty…for reasons which will remain confidential, but which are also quite obvious—and yes they can be delicious for me in that I can feel pretty spicy sometimes, strutting around in a tight t-shirt, ready to take on the world. Lara Croft watch out. The other side of all this, however, lies with the other D (no, I’m not talking about Boob 1 and Boob 2). Dumb. Dumb because if I ever want to run, I feel like I have to cradle each one in a ‘hand hammock’ so that they won’t suddenly sink to the ground and cause me to trip. Dumb because creepy men think that my genetic makeup was designed for their viewing pleasure. Dumb because I should be able to wear a small (a word every woman likes wearing) but instead I have to wear a medium. Dumb because they aren’t even the same size (if you boobs are going to be big, at least agree on how big)!
I dream of a B cup.

This post was brought to you by my Period. A lovely time of month which robs me of sex with Ty, thongs, and any thought of feeling sexy.
Oh yeah, did I mention it make my boobs bigger. See above for why this maddens me.