My Milkshake

Ya know, years after the fact, I still dont know if Kelis was singing about her ass or her tits, but for today I’m gonna assume it was her tits.

My milkshake has been bringing boys to the yard since the 5th fucking grade.  Girls arent supposed to be developing in the 5th grade.  I had B’s when I was 11.  C’s when I was 12, D’s when I was 14.  What the fuck?

Today I sit here and write this as my normally DD cup hath overflown into the G category, or at least thats what the nice lady at the Breastfeeding Center of DC told me when I was fitted for a new bra, last week.  And what’s this about me getting bigger??

I bring this up because they’ve become a topic of conversation.  Granted, I’m usually one of the first to bring them up since I’m boisterous and loud and funny and larger than life and whatever other cliche you want to call the funny fat chick.  They are obvious.  They are out there.

I like to wear low cut things because besides my smile, they’re one of my few assets.  They also get me fantastic service from the dude I need to sign shit for the mail-room.  I dont mind the stares, the looks, the glances.  They get me attention and God knows I crave attention like my friend Meta craves chocolate pudding.

But lately, in my new-found pregnant state, I find myself getting a little anti-social.  Dont call me on the phone (unless you’re my parents), text me.  Dont text me, send me a FB message.  Dont send me a message… just pretend I’ve died for a while.  I love hanging out with friends, but I am so easily annoyed by, like, everything that I’d rather not lose my shit when I’ve just spent all effing day at work with people who cough, fart, bleed, and roam the hallways talking to themselves.  And that sometimes includes getting pissy at the folks gawking at your rack.

Which reminds me, I absolutely have to write about the whore who left their damn seat condom on the actual seat.  If you must be a neurotic fuck face who likes to kid themselves by using “sanitary seat protectors” to protect your precious perfect ass from the evils of a fucking toilet seat, at least make sure that the damn thing flushes away before the next person inadvertently sits on it.  I mega-loathe you all.

Going back to my boobs.

When a friend says something about them, I exhale and smile and move on with my life.  They’re being immature.  Whatever.  I brush it off because I have been for the last 14 years of my life.  I have big boobs.  Eventually you have to grow a thick skin when people talk about them, especially in your presence.  I dont really help the situation when I do things like lose food in that one spot between your chest and your shirt, or when I wear super tight tanks that show off my boob/belly package.  Or when I say shit like, “Jesus, my nips are huge”.  Or when I take pictures of them in a tight shirt and put it on facebook.  Yeah.  I dont help.  Its kinda ridiculous of me to get pissy for others doing exactly what I do.  It’s annoying, sometimes.  But srsly.  You move on.

On the other hand, I’m starting to notice that it’s pissing off my husband.


He’s a great guy and tries to hide obvious jealousy as though it were a distasteful personality trait, but it does have its time and place.  And if someone is hitting on your wife’s tatas, that would be the place to be pissed.  But, bless him, he hasnt actually gone off on our friends.

I feel like it’s starting to wear thin.

Poor dude, he’s really about to pound someone’s face in.

So, to all my friends out there who are lovely admirers of my ginormous knockers, be forewarned.  Continuous conversation about my mammary glands may result in some serious destruction.

By my husband.

Who is bigger than you.

If its any consolation, he just might apologize for his outburst later, but you shouldnt hold your breath.

This may or may not be me...

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