Tits

I hate my breasts. I don't even know if calling them breasts would be accurate, seeing as they more closely resemble tiny flaps of skin. A friend moved into a new apartment recently, and while over at her new digs, I took the opportunity to use her measuring tape to figure out my figure measurements. 31-24-31.

For the Fourth of July holiday, I ended up at some party with the boy, consumed enough liquor to get me properly drunk, and somehow made it back to his place. I wake up at 6 am from the light streaming through the window curtains, and for the first time I get a look at his room. Herzog DVD collection, post-it notes above his desk, baseball caps on hooks - and a page from a magazine ripped out and taped to a prime wall spot close by the headboard featuring a very buxom female. If my chest measures 31", hers must have measured 38". The breeze blowing through the open window kept the page flapping about, begging me to notice it, pleading with me to make the comparison between my own sorry rack and the tits of this sexy goddess lady. I glanced down at my pitiful bare breasts, slightly peaking from the cold, and glanced at the big sleeping boy next to me, then took another look at the fantasy woman on the wall. I don't remember the last time I'd felt that small and frozen and lonely and weak. I proceeded to put my clothes on and then left for home.