Yes, Thank You, I Know I Don't Have Tits

I was spending my Saturday morning doing some online shopping when I came across the lingerie section of the website. Hold the phone! I fucking love lingerie. To the point where I own so much of it, there are things with tags still on them. PS – biddies, step your fucking sex attire game up. No one wants to bring home the girl who spent all of her money on designer shit on the outside and is rocking KMart granny panties when it’s time to party. Anyway, I’m cruising through this section and then I begin to realize that everything thing I click on is AT LEAST a 36B. A FUCKING 36B?! Are you kidding me? Vicki’s is actually decent enough to carry a 34B, and when it honestly comes down to it, I’m an A cup, I just bullshit my way through a 34B! Guys, I’m really sorry if this is over your head – figure out the order of the letters of the alphabet and then throw stupid fucking random 32-36 after each one to indicate how big a girl’s bewbs are, higher the letter and number, better they look. So now, I’m ripshit. Like what the fuck am I supposed to buy now? Discriminatory websites. I was thinking though, people hate on us for not having tatetas, but it’s an art form, a second job (or 3-6th for some of us). And because of that, I’d like to delve into what it’s like to be part of the itty bitty tittie committee.

First things first – I’m getting my bewbs done. Everyone knows it, I’ve wanted them done since I was like 13 so yeah. I’m saving up. Relax. That being said, I often wonder what I would do with my new boobies. The adventures we would go on. The places we would travel. The people who would ask to touch them, among other things. I would get to buy any lingerie I wanted; I WOULD GET TO SHOP AT FREDRICK’S! I could press them up against glass sliding doors. Fuck bras, I wouldn’t even fucking wear one. I could wear those cute back cut shirts and not have to worry about my bra! OH MY GOD, BATHING SUITS WOULD BE AWESOME! And then I wake up from that dream, and realize that when I look down my shirt, all I see is my stomach. No need to worry about not finding a bra in the mess of my room. No man, it’s cool. I got band-aids. It’s how you handle things at crunch time that really set the bar.

One of the best techniques for fakin’ it till you make it is figuring out how to place yourself in a shirt. And I don’t mean stuffing your bra. No, no, that’s very middle school. This isn’t the Baby Sitter’s Club. You have a few options here. One is the back fat technique. It’s a sort of scoop and pull up of sorts. Reach behind yourself and pull anything you can up to the booble-region. Fat, skin, muscle, bone, it doesn’t matter, it all looks the same in the bra. Another great thing to do is double up on bras. This may seem a little extreme, but you can only do so much in a strapless bra. Double the padding looks kinda like boobs, right? Just keep your shirt on when you have sex that night, or else I’m pretty sure when Mr. Tittie Licker McGee wants to sample the goods, he might be a little let down. And the final, more obvious choice is of course to pay attention to the bra itself. Those of us that are a little lacking can’t just shop where the fuck ever. I need a bra with padding. I need a bra so padded that I could take it off and use it as a pillow. I need a bra so stuffed to the effing brim with shit that I could use it as a flotation device during an emergency landing in the middle of the Carribbean Ocean on my way to the Bahamas. But the padding is just one part to it. Most bras come with lots of different straps so you can tailor it to your shirt. The easiet way to get the most out of your bra is to use EVERY strap. Mummy that shit up. So what if you’ll have rug burn all over your upper body by the night’s end? Your boobs will look fucking fabulous.

A personal pet peeve of mine is people talking shit about my lack of titty action. Dude, I can’t fucking help it. I didn’t decide when I was born, “Yeah, you know what? I’m good without having anything on my chest. Make me look male”. No, assholes. It’s not a lifestyle choice. I do make fun of myself for it, but it still bothers me. I’ve been told that the male instinct tells you guys to pick a mate that has the right features to support children. I suppose that the breastesses back this up. But dude, it’s the new millennium. There’s shit called formula. My lack of boobs wouldn’t make me a bad mother; I would probably just be that way on my own. (if you’d like to find out, buy me a pair and I’ll let you know). My lack of boobs doesn’t make me a lesser lover or less attractive. I’ve noticed that everyone on the planet finds me attractive already so that idea goes completely out the window. Having a nice rack is like sprinkles on the cupcake. And who the hell doesn’t want to sample my cupcake? But sprinkles…ah! Then it would just be unfair for all the biddies out there. It’s not just people either, my computer knows too. I get tons and tons of junk email for bras, breast implants, those bullshit creams and herbal pills you eat and then regurgitate and then rub all over your nipples. I get those all the time. I probably continue to get them because unlike most spam mail, I open them each and read them. Like little Easter Eggs scattered throughout my inbox, each bringing a shining ray of hope to my day, that yes, some where out there, there is a cure for my lack of tittehz.

To cap this piece off, I’d like to finish with one final rant – IF YOU HAVE BEWBS, SHUT THE FUCK UP. “Aww wahhhh, my back hurts, I can’t find any shirts that fit me, my boobs always fall out, people always stare at my chest (or the kicker) MY BOOBS ARE TOO BIG.” I understand all these things are a predicament for you. But to be honest, they make operations for you bids too. And if you want to sit and complain about your boobs when I could do more with ONE of your tatetas, cut in half, and dispersed over both of mine, then you need to shut the fuck up. Don’t make it seem like large shirts are unavailable, don’t make it seem like you don’t like the attention, don’t make it seem like you don’t have a boyfriend who loves your tits who’ll sit and rub all the kinks out your back and then tittiefuck the shit out of you. No, I have no time for such frivolous lies. I understand that the grass is always greener. And yeah, I do have it better to be totally honest. I get to tell someone – “Look here guy, make my boobs this big. No more, no less”. God didn’t spread out your genes all so evenly, and that’s why I’m pretty and you probably just have a rack. At least that’s what I tell myself. And I mean, you can’t buy cheek bones like mine. You just can’t.

Point of the matter being, is that you should be happy how God made you, crack jokes, and slowly save up money to fix whatever it is you don’t like about yourself. That being said, everyone has good qualities and it’s important to pick those out and be glad that you have that going on for you at the very least. Please note that the ability to blind-foldedly decipher between KFC, Boston Market, Popeye’s and Chix Felet is not a shining gold star in your awesome column. But to my point, it probably balances out with you being a total fat lardy lard fat mcfatfat rhino pants. But I really only recommend going under the knife if you’re cool with yourself. Plastic surgery doesn’t make you any prettier really. And it especially doesn’t cure stupidity or low self-esteem. In fact, those things will only grow worse over time. And gentleman, remember – for 50 cents a day, you can change the life of one very special lady.

*7/10 people counted the different ways I said boobs. And then said “SHE FORGOT ____”.

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