Date Decorum

Naturally big knockers are a blessing and a curse, but at the end of the day, it is the cross that I must bear. When I was 15, my boobs grew literally overnight from prepubescent A cups to full on C cups. I used to cry when boys made comments, not realizing how much money I would save and how many VIP rooms these puppies would get me into later in life. The worst parts about having big boobs are: I always have trouble finding flattering shirts to wear that don't make me look like I'm Monique on top and an Olsen on the bottom. The gays feel that since they don't like icky girls, they have free access to fondle and grope me as often as possible. I have been felt up more by a gay man at Paradise during happy hour then I ever have after 4 years of college spring breaks. And sometimes when I'm eating, they fall into my food. I will look down after a delicious meal and see sour cream on the underside of my new Burberry sweater. This is especially sexy on a first date. You couple that with my devout alcoholism, and it is a rarity for a second date. (True story but once on a date, when we were nearing the end of a wine bottle, my date excused himself for the bathroom. Since his wine glass had more in it, I wiped the lipstick off the rim of mine, and switched it with his). And once while making Thanksgiving dinner for my family (they drink as much as I do so whomever is most sober cooks), I was leaning over to the back burner to stir some green beans and burnt my boob on the pan on the front burner. Holy third degree burns it hurt! Yet, every time I think about reducing them, I think about all of the good times we had, and I refrain. Maybe when I'm sixty and they're knocking against my knees I'll do it, but for now, I'll stay Monique on the top, and an Olsen on the bottom.