Welcome to the world of fried eggs and melons; those bizarre mounds of fat that protrude out from the chests of women (and a few men) across the globe. Whilst heterosexual men dribble at the sight of that lard (which they wouldn’t like on any other part of the body), women both complain about and celebrate their bosoms.
But for those of us who are not blessed with melons; for those of us who have smaller chests than the chubbier of their male peers; the whole boobage thing is no less than annoying.
Allow me to introduce myself as a girl with tiny boobs. I’m talking so small that Matalan sticks a celebratory “my first bra” sticker on the only bras they have in my size (other cheap clothes stores are available). Clothes are not designed for such small chests. Men are not built to deal with such small toys. And I?
Well, I don’t actually care, really. Of course, the fact that I am writing this at all suggests that this statement is a little lacking in the truth, but in all honestly, I have gotten over the fried egg situation. If anything, it fascinates me that every other female, on both sides of my family, can have such gargantuan knockers, only to leave me with my grapes. I feel as though I may have done the impossible and defied my DNA.
More importantly, I am yet to encounter a situation where I have needed a perkier pair of pups. I am quite happy with using my lap as a shelf, so there is no need for big boobs there. The clothes I wear leave far more to be desired than a bit of bulk in the chest region. And most important of all; I don’t have to look at them anyway.
Boobs are little mounds of flesh by which the male gender judges their female peers. So, really, my barely visible mounds are ‘moron’ detectors: if they talk to me, they have obviously clambered over the ‘must have tremendous tits’ barrier and have made it to the ‘actual human’ crew.
Boobs? They’re just balls for women.