Boobs are ridiculous. They just sit there, getting in the way and being uncomfortable, like me, when I try to help in someone else’s kitchen. I’m not using my boobs, and I don’t intend to ever use them again, so why must I be forever cursed with carrying the weight of a small child on my chest? It hardly seems fair.
When I complain about having knockers capable of knocking me out, at least one person will inevitably pipe up, “Oh your so lucky, I’m only a B cup,” or “but men love big boobs”. This person is wrong and should be shunned immediately. Your sweet little b-cups continue to look fabulous once you take your bra off. They stay right where they’re meant to be – on your chest. You can go braless if your outfit calls for it. And yes, men love big boobs, but most men don’t realise how different BIG boobs look once they’re released from their daily torture device. It’s like being promised a bouncy castle for your birthday party, but when it shows up you realise no one bought a generator to keeping it inflated. That’s some intense disappointment.
Recently I spent upwards of an hour online trying to locate a bra that fits me, looks nice and I can afford. Nada. Not going to happen.
A friend told me that they have a separate bank account specifically for his well cleavaged wife’s bras, such is the cost of an ample bosom. It’s actually a wise idea. In 4 months I’ve spent $150 on three bras, that didn’t really fit, but were affordable because they were a touch too small. I now have one bra intact, and two with broken underwires. Dear Friend’s chestially-blessed wife bought a bra for $180 back in May and it’s as good as new. My endeavour for cheap bras is false economy. Time to start putting away boob money.