boobs. yup, that’s all.

Apparently, I am a 14-year-old boy.

Because seriously? All I can think about are boobs.

And it’s a problem.

I find myself staring at girls’ racks, flipping through (lie. buying. and no I won’t share, so get your own, perv) the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, salivating over Vicky’s Angels, the Girls Next Door, and the possessor of what can only be deemed the most magnificent assets OF ALL TIME, one Christina Hendricks (that’s Ms. Holloway to you).

It doesn’t help that, as mentioned, my girlfriends are 1. super hot and 2. begging for me to cop a feel because they are a.) plastic and proud or b.)  real and want to compare.

That’s right boys, those scantily clad slumber parties of your dreams:

All true.

So while, no, feeling up hot girls is not at all objectionable, I feel sorta, kinda, as if I need more room in my brain to think of unicorns, sparkles, boots, and boys. So in an attempt to ohmygod stop staring at everyone’s rack and you know, perhaps ascertain why I am so visually obsessed with others’ tatas, I went all Freudian for approximately 12 seconds and came to the not so earth shattering conclusion that:

I’m totally peanut butter and jealous, guys!

Seriously, I’m about ready to go all bratty third grader style and kick and scream about how it’s just not fair, but as that will in no way ensure a voluptuous upper half, I’m just going to, oh I don’t know, write a few hundred words in some ode to mammary magnificence, lament my lacking bosom that will never be romance novel worthy nor described as ‘heaving,’ and drool over Bar Refaeli’s impeccable assets.

Cool with you?

Who am I kidding? No one made it past naked slumber parties…

job of the day: bra ( what? Personal umbrella holders exist, so why not personal… cuppage experts?)


~ by rubylocks on February 23, 2010.

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