At a young age, there was very little I wanted more than big boobs. But, it’s like so many people say: be careful what you wish for.
You came into my life slowly but made your presence well known. Before I knew it, my clothes were tighter and my facial features were suddenly much less important.
I’m not going to lie, at first, I fucking loved you!
But, like many loves, the honeymoon stage was short-lived.
You’re awesome in the bedroom and all, but in the outside world, you kind of really suck.
Because of you, I can never, ever, ever, shop online. I honestly, have no idea what you’ll decide to fit into. Sometimes you fit in a small, sometimes you fit in a medium, and sometimes (the worst times) you fit in a large or extra large.
You’re quite the show-off. No matter how much I try to cover you up, it’s like you always, somehow, have to let the world know you exist. I especially hate you during bikini season.
I’m convinced that before you came along, working out was simple. Now, two sports bras later, and you still punish me every time I attempt to be active. It’s like you want me to be fat or something.
Also, you’re so fucking heavy. I seriously don’t understand how I’m not losing weight every time I carry you around, which is always.
My dance moves are no longer my dance moves. Why do you always feel the need to steal my thunder?
You know those cute girls that can show the perfect amount of cleavage and look sexy without looking slutty? I’ve never been one of those girls. Because of you, any attempt at sexy appears slutty.
Bra shopping is limited, and frankly, downright stressful.
My back seriously hurts all the time. What did I do to deserve this kind of torture?
I get it, people pay to have the perfect breasts. I should be praising you. I mean, I’ve got big tatas for free!
But if one more person says, “OMG! You have such big boobs, you’re so lucky,” I will seriously consider a breast reduction.
Life with you isn’t always easy, but hang in there boobies. We have little choice, but to get through this life together.