FUN FACT: I AM WRITING A BOOK! It’s going to be an autobiography of sorts, comprised of letters written to people and things I’ve encountered throughout my life. Some letters will be written by me, 22-year-old Bitchface, while others will be written by a younger or older Bitchface. This entry is an excerpt of what is to be expected of this word baby I’m in the process of birthing. IT’S GOING TO BE FUN.
Or a total train wreck.
Dear Future Boobs,
You may have not come in quite yet, but I’m expecting great things out of you. Remember that scene in “13 Going on 30” where 13-year-old-Jennifer-Garner-in-30-year-old-Jennifer-Garner’s-body says her dress looks good on her because she has incredible boobs to fill it out? I want that and more, so you’d better get to work.
Thinking about you gives me hope that I won’t always be this flat-chested broad who can’t seem to be able to fill a “nearly-A” cup just yet. I’ve read American Girl’s “Body Book for Girls” cover-to-cover, so I know y’all are just being stubborn and are refusing to move past stage two of breast development. (Thanks to that book, I also know how to insert a tampon. Highly recommend.). Don’t you want to be not pointy? Not asymmetrical? Normal?
Hear me out… You’re cool and all, being tiny, but I look at ladies with real boobs, and it just seems like they have so much fun. They get to do things like wear non-training bras, and go to the beach in non-preteen bikinis, and not be accidentally identified as men. They can run and have their boobs bounce with every step, which I’m sure burns more calories. They can also be titty-fucked without fear of the male genitalia bruising their bony-ass chests for the next week. (Or so I’ve heard. I really don’t know this from experience. Really. Good thing this letter is addressed to Future Boobs and not Annie’s Mom, right?)
However, Future Boobs, your growth also makes me nervous. As of now, I don’t have to worry about being ogled on the street because of my pre-pubescent chest. All I have to worry about is being ogled on the street for simply being a lady—I don’t need detectable boobs, too! Just having them is like wearing a sign that says, “Shove your nasty ‘compliments’ in my face. I love attention. LOOK AT MY TITS, BIG BOY!” So, if you do decide to grow in, you might want to make a deal with the supreme ruler of testicles, too—for every rude comment I receive, the person who made the comment could maybe, like, lose a ball or two. That seems fair. And I’ve definitely (not) taken anatomy, so I know that all body parts are a member of the Anatomic Union and can communicate with each other via telepathy. Don’t lie to me.
I know I’ve been asking for a lot, sweet, sweet Future Boobs. So, if you ultimately decide you never want to grow up to be normal woman boobs, I’ll be fine with it. You’ve served me well throughout the years, and although you haven’t been quite present in my life, I know you’re trying your darndest, and that’s what counts. Well, according to the media, what really counts is having big boobs, but I still think you’re beautiful.