Why are boobs sexy? I don’t know if I understand that. I mean, I sort of understand the whole point about asses and evolution and doggy style, but seriously, the need for boobs to make those perfect mounds in sweaters, to perch languidly in demi-cup bras, what is that exactly? Sure, I love my rack, but I think I’d love it even if it were not so much a rack but a slight incline, a foothold for reaching the summit. My breasts are currently staging a violent coup. They are tired of being held back by straps and cups and yearn to live the life of the free. They take turns posing like Che Guevara and then plotting ways to escape the confines of my underwires.
Most of the time, I keep them in check, but I had to go to the dentist today and hang more or less upside down while a very perky dental assistant chastised me for somehow forgetting to make my summer appointment (normally, I am like clockwork with my appointments because I am terrified that my teeth will fall out or break) and therefore, my dirty pillows decided to take some liberties. After my oral hygiene, I visited their bathroom and adjusted everything, but honestly, when such things have gone very awry, sometimes you just have to start over. I should have dismounted and saddled back up, but I didn’t, because I feel weird being mostly naked in a place where Dr. John has been enthroned on a daily basis for the last twenty years. Even though today was his day off and I saw his Girl Scout sub-dentist instead, the bathroom is still somehow permeated with Dr. John’s very aura. Whoa, every once in awhile, the hippy background steps out. Excuse me, I need to go smudge some sage.
When I came back to work, I realized that things were not acceptable and had to secretly reach into my shirt and hoist one back into position, as though it were a misbehaving frozen turkey. I AM SO DAMNED PROFESSIONAL. Be on my team! Give me a project and a budget! Do it or I’ll sic one of my bosoms on you!
Oy.
Which reminds me (see if you can figure out how this threads), one of my favorite guilty pleasures is watching any kind of Real World/Road Rules challenge on MTV. Except this season, there’s no Coral or Miz and not even a bitch crazy Veronica. I’m officially old now, because the twenty somethings are soundly trouncing the asses of my peers. Syrus, what happened to you? Also, Montana? I will never be able to look at your face without hearing you screech at Vaj as he repeatedly called you a Whore. Whore. Whore. Whoooore.
Can you tell that’s the moment that gave my soul to reality television? Because it is. I wonder what Vaj (which I have decided is short for Vagina) is up to these days? I wonder what it’s like to be his girlfriend and or wife? Does one live in fear of the onslaught of Whores that are lurking under his unibrow?
In other news, Jason from the Boston cast reminds me of a guy I used to go to high school with. I used to think Jeff was cute until he was cast as my father in a play and then all the sudden my crush became twenty kinds of wrong. I still think Jason’s hot, though. And he’s a poet. Oh the angst! And yet, he dated a girl named Timber.
First rule in the Poet Handbook: don’t date strippers. That’s why it’s better to write prose. More words and more vices.
Also, totally not related to the Real World, but Sawyer on Lost is so very not my type. I’d rather gaze upon Sayid or Jin any day of the week and yet’. Yet, the man is all sorts of pretty with his shirt off. You know what should happen next? Sawyer gets captured by The Others and they must take his shirt and pants and give him a towel to wear, which causes him to scowl! Sawyer has to battle the Shirt-Eating Polar Bear in a Watership Down trivia contest! Failure to input the numbers dissolves all clothing on the island! I don’t care! More plot points that involve Sawyer without a shirt! That is all.
PS. Naked Sayid would also make me happy.
I had no idea there were different classifications of cleavage. And with that, this becomes a blog.
