Something is up with my breasts.
I wanted to say “Something strange is afoot with my breasts” but the images there–the breasts, the feet–it was simply all too much for even me.
Anywhoo, they seem to have changed. They’re a little bit… morphed or something. Something science fiction. Someone Ray Bradburied my breasts. At first I thought “Perhaps they were stung by bees” but then I realized that I haven’t seen any packs of roving breast-infatuated bees recently, or even some lone bee yelling “Can I get a burger with that shake, babeeee?” And aren’t worker bees all female? So they would perhaps be lesbian bees, thus further supporting the theory that I am catnip for lesbians, but the point is moot, as it is November and it is Wisconsin and while we’ve got a lot of things, sexually frustrated bees aren’t one of them.
Fact: My normal non-Dayam!bras are not hoisting well enough.Now, maybe I am spoiled by the sheer power of the Dayam!bras, their positively mind-boggling ability to defy gravity, but my normal demi-bras just aren’t cutting it. And I haven’t gained weight because the band is too loose.
Fact: My right bra strap keeps falling off my shoulder.Therefore, it’s not a case of loose straps.
Fact: The cups keep sliding up. The wires aren’t properly resting against my rib cage, in that little area… I don’t know what you call it… my BOOB PIT?…. you know what I mean, that spot. They are instead riding up, because I keep hoisting and adjusting and it’s just not cutting it.
Fact:I have this strange mutant breast thing going on, whereby my cups overfloweth. Sometimes I swear I’ve got like four breasts… the two big’uns and the two upper breastlettes. It’s a wealth of cleavage. I was demonstrating my problem to Carissa this morning and showed her my auxillery cleavage and as God as my witness, it looked just like a perfect little pair of ass cheeks. I guess I should have specified when I wished for Cameron Diaz’s ass. I needed to indicate placement.
Now, I know it’s not that my bras have shrunk or been swapped by some crazy Bra Patrol, or by some artist trying to make a sculpture made with bras. No, because these bras fit like two weeks ago. I think the circumference of the breasts in question has been radically altered. Perhaps two geeks named Wyatt and Gary zapped them with some transmogrification ray.
I, for one, am quite concerned. Esteban, on the other hand, could not be reached for comment. Well, he could be reached for comment, but the comments were basically just monosyllablic grunts and drooling until I pulled my shirt back down.
You know, maybe it’s the Body Butter? Now that the weather has gotten chilly and dry, I’ve begun my sugar scrub and Body Butter ritual. That’s when I started noticing the change. Perhaps it’s making them swell?
I can just see the news tomorrow “Officials at The Body Shop were surprised to find an unexpected run on Coconut Body Butter. Stores around the nation are selling out. Anita Rodrick was quoted as saying “It’s very peculiar. We haven’t changed anything. And they’re coming in asking for it as ‘the stripper scented stuff’. Sales have jumped 500% in just a few hours.And it’s not just women… men are buying it too, but they won’t tell us why. Very strange.”
I’ll keep you…. no, nevermind. I’m not going to say it.
In other news, I suspect that my annual Christmas Freakout is about to begin. Why? Because I’ve started making gifts and cards and crazy stuff that I have absolutely no time to do because I think that Christmas is something like 800 years away and thus I have time to make everything JUST FUCKING PERFECT, when in reality I’ll be lucky if I can find time during my 55 hour work week to haul my curvalicious butt out to the store and buy everyone a Whitman’s sampler. My inner demons all look like Martha Stewart and chop the heads off their own Christmas turkeys so that they are just that much fresher than everyone elses. They use paper pulp made from recycled junk mail to craft their very own wrapping paper and give large gifts like bicycles that require gift wrapping sessions that more closely resemble a rousing game of Twister, but with the addition of Scotch tape.
Is there anything better than Scotch Tape? Seriously. The smell. It’s the smell. There is just nothing like it. It smells just like my great grandmother’s stationery drawer. Screw roses…Take time to stop and smell the Scotch Tape. That’s your assignment today. Huff some Scotch tape.
Oh, one more thing, I’m grossly copying Monica (no, I know her name isn’t Monica, it’s one of those little in-jokes that you miss out on if you don’t go to JournalCon), and instituting this little thingy for as long as I remember to do it. It’s kind of interesting, in a “where my head was at last year” kind of thing.
This time, last year:
“Anyway, they put this plastic harness thing in my face, which held my lips back off my face. I felt like Hannibal Lector. I tried saying “Hello Clarice!” in my really bad Anthony Hopkins impression but all they got was “Arrgo Harrys!” because I no longer had any lips at that point.
Then Dr. John started yelling at me to move my tongue back. Move your tongue back! Hold your tongue back please! I’d love to hold my tongue back, Dr. John, if you’ll kindly point out where it has gone!!!! I don’t know where my tongue is!“
Apparently, my head was in the damn clouds last year. It’s surreal though… I am wearing the same pair of socks today. And I still adore them.
