“I think my tits are made of memory foam”, I said to the poor man joining me for dinner. “It’s like I keep cutting them off and they keep growing back. They’re the Tempurpedic of tits.” I took a handful of each one and shook them in his face. “Look at them, don’t they look huge?” He stared at me. It was a look that said – please stop – you’re insane. Sure grabbing your boobs in a restaurant isn’t the most convenient place for this type of inquiry but this is Los Angeles – people do way weirder shit at dinner. For the past week I have become increasingly terrified that my boobs are in fact growing back. Now, I may be crazy about a ton of things – but the size of my boobs is not one of them. I paid good money to have these things lopped off – twice – to a tiny B cup and that’s the way I want them to stay. But for the past week I could tell – they were growing. I could suddenly feel them – touching the sides of my arms – moving when I ran – and popping out of my very expensive very tiny Cosa Bella bras. What the fuck was happening? I hadn’t gained weight. I hadn’t been doing anything different. I was stumped. All week I would ask anyone I came in contact with. “What do you think? Do they look bigger to you?” Each time the person confirmed what they’ve always known about me. I’m nuts. So I’ve tried to ignore it. I called my doctor and scheduled an appointment. I will cut these things down to the nipple if that’s what is takes. I started wearing my big shirts again. I tried on the bikini’s I wore in Turks And Caicos to see if they fit. I was popping out of the sides. I tried on my old bikini and it was big but NOT BIG ENOUGH! Oh, the humanity. I don’t know most people feel about God and Creation but I’m here to tell you that God is a dude and he made boobs able to regenerate. What a genius!
I woke up this morning knowing that the first thing I had to do was get my finances in order to go in for a third boob job. Why do I hate these things so much? I don’t know. I just do. They annoy me. But before I got a chance to log on and find out how much money I don’t have – I went to pee – and voila – the answer to all my boob problems. I have my period.
Now I’d like to take this moment to send a memo to my vagina. “You’re died eight months ago. Please stop. Thank you.” At least my tits can rest easy knowing they’re safe… for now.