The Uniboob

Those of you who shlep around a disproportionately oversized pair of knockers, who can't imagine going five steps away from your bed without a bra, who fantasize about getting those fuckers whittled down to lovely little B or C cups, will get what I'm saying.

I resent the bras I have to wear. They are enormous. They are ugly. They never, ever come with fewer than three hooks in the back, or elegant straps. They are not available at Target or Victwhoria's Secret, no sir. These military-strength garments require a serious cash investment. They are rarely comfortable. The designers seem to have some sort of sick competition going on regarding how many different shapes they can mold the Tits of America into, which means that if you own several different types you may get confused people asking you if you've lost weight or had surgery or what have you all the time. It sucks.

Sometimes I get sick of all the cantilevering and buttressing and strapping, the pinching and gouging and erupting. At times like these--times like now--I toss out all the load-bearing gear, and pull on the old sports bra. Aaaaahhhhh. So comfy, so squishy, the brassiere equivalent of those favorite old sweats. So what if I end up with a shapeless uniboob--the only person besides me who cares about my girls' appearance already knows what they look like naked and sproinging away. A little bit of camouflage is not going to put him off. Especially when it makes me so happy.

Uniboob, I salute you. You are my comfort and my solace. You set me free.

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