The past couple of months have been hard for me. Sometimes, I'd catch myself sitting by the window on a rainy day, watching the water trickle like teardrops down the glass. Or I'd curl myself up into a ball on the bed and quietly weep so that she couldn't hear me sobbing.
My girlfriend's boobs were shrinking.
She'd been losing weight, you see. Generally males are conditioned to be happy about these kind of things. Like when she's tugging at her insanely overpriced jeans to show you how loose it is. You're supposed to throw your hands in the air, and wave them like you just don't care.
But when she told me she might've also fallen a full cup size down to a B, I refused to believe her. Then, with trembling hands, I slowly palmed her breasts ...
A long time ago, someone told me one of the saddest things I'd ever heard:
"I hate to say this, Ed. But the breasts are the last place on a woman's body to gain weight, and the first place to lose weight."
For many men, this proves that there is no God. But for me, it was the strongest proof yet that there truly was a God - the Depeche Mode God in "Blasphemous Rumours." A sick sense of humor indeed. To get back at him I punched a nun in the stomach.
I remember repeating this fact to my college buddies. Most were just as horrified as I was and took turns punching the nun. But quite a few surprisingly didn't feel as strongly.
"I really don't give a shit, bro," one of them said. "I'm an Ass Man."
The Ass Men really did have it good in this round, jiggly world. Did this mean that the Supreme Being was an Ass Man as well? And for that matter, did my passionate feelings on the topic mean I was a Breast Man? Of course not. If you knew me at all, then you'd know that the first thing I look at when I meet a woman is her book collection. After all, a woman's selection of literary works is very important to me.
Instead, I'd like to think the reason why I cared so much was because I was someone who felt very strongly about this injustice to all breastkind. A Martin Luther King Jr. of titties, if you will.
And not just for shrinking breasts. Saggy mudflap breasts too. And lopsided breasts. Boyish breasts. Breasts with strangely oversized areolas. Breasts with really long nipple hairs. Avril Lavigne-ish bitch teats. I championed all their causes. God may have forsaken the bazongas, but not me. I cherished them all as if they were my own children.
Maybe that's why I was rewarded with a girlfriend with perfect breasts. And even though they might've diminished a bit in stature, I was not going to turn my back on them. I would be just as proud of them as I was during their glory years.
But if they fall another cup size, I'll obviously have to break up with her.
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