I have shown my tits to more people in the past month than I have in my entire life, and none of them purchased any alcohol for me.
Are you supposed to get less slutty when you get engaged?
On the other hand, shame goes out the window when you hear words like “malignant.” You just want to show your boobs to as many people as it takes until this shit gets the hell out of your body. Take all the pictures you want, so-called medical-professional. Squeeze ‘em. Call them weird things like “The Girls” and tell me to rub weird oils on them.
I don’t care. Just fix me.
“I don’t want you to get too hung up on the diagnosis of malignancy. Now you know what to call it. I am going to focus on fixing what’s diseased, and you are going to focus on your wedding, and making sure your first year of marriage isn’t any more difficult than this.”
That’s what the specialist said when she sat me down to give me the news. At first, I was not hung up on this. I was ready. And then I did what no one should ever do.
Do not ever Web MD anything, ever. Do not read the study where 12% of participants had a recurrence (12% of people who had a tumor that occurs in less than 1% of all breast diseases. How miniscule is this? Someone do the maths). Don’t look at pictures of other people’s mastectomies, and don’t, DON’T read about what causes cancer and tumor growth. Your shit will explode.
After I did all of my “don’ts,” I realized it didn’t serve me well. I was tired of weeping like a little bitch every time the thought occurred to me that I could have waited too long. It would not change my situation at all to be a Web MD expert. It frustrated me, made me feel like a helpless victim, which is so unfamiliar and un…me.
Today, I focus on all the good things my right boob has done for me in my life. It has helped hold up some dresses that I probably shouldn’t have worn. As part of an effective team of cleavage, it helped get me a lot of free drinks. It looked damn good in swimsuits. It’s been put through a lot of shit. Bad spray-tans. Makeshift tape “bras.” Cycling classes. Zumba. Omaha’s pot-holes.
I’ve chosen to look at Frankenboob like the old lady at work who doesn’t do anything anymore but complain. In her heyday, she was a great worker, but she needs to be replaced by someone younger and more efficient. We will throw a party to honor her as she retires, and then we’ll fucking kill her.
But seriously, right boob, thank you. You will be missed.
JB: You know what you should do?! You should watch Hardcore Porn!
C: …Why? Will it make me feel better about my boobs?
JB: What am I trying to say? Like, they sell things in the ghetto?
JY: PAWN! Oh my god she’s trying to say Hardcore Pawn!