I am going to share some personal things with you right now. Not about anything horrible or that will make you feel extremely emotional (God willing), but personal nonetheless. So if you’re NOT interested in reading about BOOBIES then this would be a great point to turn off your computer and go engage in some wholesome activity. Like thinking about the Pioneer Woman and why she’s so obnoxiously obsequious.
Yesterday on Facebook, I posted a status that I was making titty soup for a friend. People were curious. What in the hell is titty soup?
To tell you that story, we have to go back in time a little bit to when I was 14 and Nick Johnson, who was both unattractive and a total bastard pranced up to my desk, lifted his Hypercolor shirt to his chin, and said “I have bigger boobs than you!” He ran back to his group of sniggering friends, and I silently cried on the inside, both because he was sort of right, and also because why were his nipples such a freakish shade of purple? Were they not getting enough oxygen? Was this a medical emergency?
Fast forward to when I turned 17, and for the first time in my life had some sort of vague rack-like situation going on underneath my shirt. I was a VERY late bloomer, and weirdly tall, and captain of the debate team. In general, things were not stacked in my immediate favor. I had a boyfriend at the time who was Mr. Bodybuilder himself, and kind of an ass, because that was how I liked them. We were watching that sitcom where the middle aged guy talks to a puppet in his basement while he drinks. “Unhappily Ever After” was the title, according to Google. And one of the characters was played by actress Nikki Cox. Her boobs are the size of that new planet they just discovered that could sustain life. My boyfriend took one look at her obscene endowments and said, and I quote, “Whoa.” I cried.
February 11, 2000, when I was just 18 years old and living in the dorms at CSU, I got my own set of Whoa. A few years later, I got rid of the boyfriend too, which was fortuitous because he got really fat (for a firefighter) shortly after we broke up. And obviously what’s the point of dating a firefighter if they don’t look like Ryan Reynolds naked? Oh…that they’re saving people and are nice to kids and care about helping their fellow man? Pshh. I was 21 and wanted to see ABS.
For many years, I was the only person I knew who had gone after-market on the boobs. They weren’t huge, they were very well done, and I could just stop thinking about them all together. That was a HUGE blessing after spending so much time thinking about them and hating them for the last, oh, four years (thanks, 9th grade boys).
Also, when I turned 21, I’m pretty sure they paid for a lot of my drinks just by existing inside my shirts.
And they *painfully* fed a beautiful baby boy without complications except for the fact that he couldn’t stop trying to rip my knicknacks off with his crazy baby gums.
In the past few years, though, it seems like more and more people are hopping on the breastwagon. I’m always supportive, provided it’s to satisfy yourself and not because you are needy/crazy/feel unlovable.
Then, last year, someone very close to me went through an ordeal where she lost both of her ta-tas to cancer. She got to keep her life. Fair trade. As a consolation prize, the doctors gave her new boobies. It’s only fair, right?
After I brought her home from the hospital and dosed her (and maybe myself) with good drugs, I made her titty soup.
Titty soup is just chicken soup, but made with extra love. I roast whole, organic chickens, turn them into stock with fresh vegetables and herbs, and then dice up the chicken into the broth with more fresh vegetables, noodles/rice, and seasonings. There’s not much to it. But it feels good to support people in a way that I didn’t feel supported when I went through the same thing as a kid. I ate dorm food and skipped classes for two weeks.
So if you ever look down at your nellies and think, “f*ck this noise, I hate them, I’m fixing them.” Well, call me and I’ll make you some soup. And if you ever look down at them and think “you know what? I’m fine with these. I love them and don’t want to change them.” I’ll make you soup too, just because you’re obviously a genius of self-esteem and you deserve it.
Solidarity girls. Solidarity. Nobody gets to judge you because you make a decision about your own body, regardless of what that decision is. And you get to hold your head high and your jugs higher because they’re YOURS and you run with gangs and do what you want.
All I know is you mofos better be prepared to make ME some titty soup when I get these bad boys redone. After all, they’re basically senior citizens at this point, and eventually will dissolve or explode or something.