Of Bears and Bodaciousness
I thought it would be cool to have bigger tits. And it is, sort of. I mean, I like titties, a lot, though I've never been a size queen. But what isn't cool is the way that they are sore. Pretty much all the time. Kind of ruins the "whee, rack!" aspect of the whole thing. I wear my sports bras to work. I go up and down the stairs cupping them in my hands gently, to avoid bouncing. When I lie on my side, they ache.
So, when I was little, I had this teddy bear, okay? He was a "jelly belly" bear, which meant he had a little rattle in his tum, and he looked sort of sad and grumpy because of the way his mouth was stitched. His name was Pooky (shut up). I also had a blanket, an old soft shredded thing that used to be an Indian woven bedspread. His name was Biggy, because he was big (shut up shut up shut up). And, because I have no shame about loving the people I love, they stayed on my bed. Every night. Until I was twenty-five or so.
When I was twenty-five or so, my dogs (who knew better) got together with my parents' dog (who is an evil peer-pressure beast) and decimated my poor teddy. There was Pooky fluff all over the yard, and an empty sack of Pooky-skin lying limply on the porch. I don't think I ever found his tummy rattle. I gathered up the remains and squirreled them away while I tried to find another bear of this make so that I could send him in for repair. But alas, I had no luck. So what did I do? I made a little pillow. It's just a muslin rectangle, with both bear-remains and well-loved blanket shreds for stuffing. And it stays on my bed. Every night. Shut up.
The point is, this pillow is the perfect size for sleeping with. I cuddle it to my chest and it makes my new titties not feel owwy while I am trying to sleep for chrissakes which is all I ever want to do anymore. But this makes me worry a tetch about my sanity. Am I really soothing my newly pregnant body with my childhood blanky and bear? Is there not some rule about growing up before one has children of one's own?
*eyes bellybutton dubiously*
Man, they just let anyone have these things, don't they? No screening process at all.
So, when I was little, I had this teddy bear, okay? He was a "jelly belly" bear, which meant he had a little rattle in his tum, and he looked sort of sad and grumpy because of the way his mouth was stitched. His name was Pooky (shut up). I also had a blanket, an old soft shredded thing that used to be an Indian woven bedspread. His name was Biggy, because he was big (shut up shut up shut up). And, because I have no shame about loving the people I love, they stayed on my bed. Every night. Until I was twenty-five or so.
When I was twenty-five or so, my dogs (who knew better) got together with my parents' dog (who is an evil peer-pressure beast) and decimated my poor teddy. There was Pooky fluff all over the yard, and an empty sack of Pooky-skin lying limply on the porch. I don't think I ever found his tummy rattle. I gathered up the remains and squirreled them away while I tried to find another bear of this make so that I could send him in for repair. But alas, I had no luck. So what did I do? I made a little pillow. It's just a muslin rectangle, with both bear-remains and well-loved blanket shreds for stuffing. And it stays on my bed. Every night. Shut up.
The point is, this pillow is the perfect size for sleeping with. I cuddle it to my chest and it makes my new titties not feel owwy while I am trying to sleep for chrissakes which is all I ever want to do anymore. But this makes me worry a tetch about my sanity. Am I really soothing my newly pregnant body with my childhood blanky and bear? Is there not some rule about growing up before one has children of one's own?
*eyes bellybutton dubiously*
Man, they just let anyone have these things, don't they? No screening process at all.
posted by The Stute Fish at 18:02
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