||[Feb. 23rd, 2005|08:37 am]
Itty Bitty Titty Committee
Hiya. I'm 21, hailing from Minnesota, and I'll admit--I'm not at all flat-chested. I've got a set of bumpers (what the average person calls D-cups) but I wish I had a smaller chest. The thought of gravity a few decades from now scares the crap outta me. I'd rather be flatter than have a few years of glory (seriously--I'm terrified).|
Anyway, this was in one of my favorite books.. "Why Girls Are Weird" by Pamela Ribon. I just thought it was awesomely appropriate for this community, and I'm sure it'll give a good laugh. Also, part of the book is written in journal entries.. which is why it's signed at the end. Anyways, it might shed some light on why it's awesome to have an A or B cup, as apposed to a C or D. Enjoy. :)
Small-chested girls and boys of all sizes: Today I give you a set of tits. You wanted big boobs your entire life and today you get to have them. After you've spent ten minutes in the mirror playing with them, get ready to experience the real world of big-tittydom. Here we go:
Your shoulders hunch inward, just slightly--a result of trying to make your chest look smaller while you were growing up, embarrassed to have people stare at you.
The seat belt never stays across your chest. It slides up and sometimes goes around your neck if you aren't careful. You are terrified that you will one day be decapitated in an auto accident because of your 34DDs.
The cuter the T-shirt, the greater the chances it will not fit you. If it does in the arms and length, the logo on the front will be stretched so tight across your chest that you look obscene.
The strappy/backless fad? Forget it. Where are you gonna be seen without a bra? There's no way. While you're at it, you can pretty much forget the one-piece swimsuits. They don't make any that fit and hold you in. You're buying separates forever.
When you're cold, everyone else is going to know. They won't tell you that you're high-beaming, but will enjoy the free show. You might notice yourself, however, when you scratch your arm on your nipple. Again, the protective hunch will develop in time.
People will "accidentally" brush into you. They like to do this at bars, in tight hallways, and on buses. They will be all "Excuse me," but will raise or lower their arms so that they brush into your breasts. They may even do the hard shove that presses their chest against yours. They won't thank you for it, either.
Your mother will talk about your chest more than your career.
No running. Ever. Invest in three sports bras and wear two at once, but you're still not going to run a mile. Use the elliptical trainer, treadmill, or Stairmaster.
The sight of speed bumps on the road may bring tears to your eyes.
Never close a hardcover book too quickly. You could get a nipple stuck in there. Yes, it happened, and no, I don't want to talk about it.
Babies grab your breasts. They don't know any better. It's only mortifying when someone jokes loudly, "He's looking for lunch!"
Lovers will try to name them. Don't let them. Keep your dignity. Maybe one great name like "Fantasia." But not like "Bert and Ernie." "Pooh and Tigger." "Lefty and Lopsy." Fuck that shit.
You wear bras all the time. Constantly. Underwires only. No frilly-soft-lacy-pretty things. Industrial strength. Straps an inch wide. You look like a 1950's nurse who's into S&M.
They itch. Once a month, they start itching like a motherfucker. You will find yourself leaning over your desk and rubbing your chest against the edge so it looks like you're sort of grooving. You will figure out how to use your forearms to scratch yourself. The itching is terrible. And when it first starts happening when you are young, your mother will tell you it's because they are growing. When it's still happening at twenty-five, it's okay to panic, just a little.
Women outwardly hate you because of your chest. Even your best friends.
There will be lines you can break, drinks that will be free, things that you can have, and tickets you might get out of.
There will also be friendships never had, clothes never worn, sports never played, and pictures ripped to shreds in agony.
Your back hurts. Just all the time. A constant state of hurt.
You have a terrible fear of catching a football. It is completely understandable.
New boyfriends won't know what to do with them. They will opt for a mix of lifting and lowering, licking all over the place, hoping to hit a spot you like.
Sometimes you accidentally drop food down there, like popcorn. People think that's hysterical.
Sometimes you'll lean over a table to get the salt and will end up dipping your breasts in someone's ketchup. Yes, you'll be humiliated. No, you probably couldn't have avoided it.
You may catch yourself leaning on a table, resting only your breasts on it. Stop. You look obnoxious. I know you didn't realize it. It just happens sometimes.
Find yourself a period play and act the shit out of it. May I suggest Dangerous Liaisons?
Did I frighten you or just make you want your own pair of big boobs even more? No, boys. I'm not talking to you. I know what your answer is. Even you gay boys. I know you want a fancy pair for special evenings. I'm just talking to the Itty Bitty Tittie Committee here. All in favor of keeping your new knockers, say "Aye."
Hello? Hello? Yeah, that's what I thought.
Love until later,