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Let me just start by saying that I hate my tits. They sag, they droop, the nipples point way more south than they should. I keep thinking maybe it means that rain's a-comin', but I just checked my Farmer's Almanac and, alas, no mention of southerly nipples being a rain gauge.

Label, by Gail Kinniburgh
by Gail Kinniburgh

Yep, they're sad little boobies. A hollow shell of their former selves, criss-crossed with stretch marks. But they are mine. And I take pride in that, damn it. I earned them. The long, hard way: through dozens of weight losses and gains, two pregnancies and breast-feeding. Yessiree, them's battle scars.

So who does this little tart, Britney Spears, think she is anyway? Put a real shirt on, already. Ah, I really shouldn't pick on her. She wasn't the first, and sadly, she won't be the last. Breast augmentation is here to stay.

And they are everywhere. Perky globes of saline, nipples perfectly aligned in the middle, cleavage inches deep, taunting me with every flip of a page. "Call the doctor, make an appointment, fix your inferior chest, look like me, see me smiling, you know you want me."

The show "Extreme Makeover" doesn't do much to help my quandary, either. Every week I watch the women with enormous noses, baggy eyes, and crooked plaquey teeth cry over their schoolyard abuse; they were the ugly ducklings. And now all they really need, dear doctor, to complete the brilliant transformation into swan, are enormous hooters.

What? Why? I thought you just wanted your nose fixed.

Now, I'm not saying fake breasts are inherently evil. I just think it's funny that women say they want falsies to feel more secure, to fit in. Well, if none of them were fake, they would fit in just fine. And now I don't fit in.

Look, if we have to blame somebody, I say let's blame the men. We do it for them, don't we? I mean, if I make mine look like hers, then maybe he'll put the damn Playboy down, close the Internet browser, turn off Howard Stern, and play with me.

But I can't blame the men. I wish I could. That would be much easier than looking at the real problem. The real problem is that I don't like my breasts (thanks, Britney et. al.). I don't wave them in his face the way I might if I did. There's no taking a picture of my naked breasts and emailing it to him at work, and there's certainly no greeting him at the door wearing nothing but a thong and high heels. I mean I could. But I feel sure I'd beat him to the floor laughing.

I guess it's really no different from their obsession with the size of their dick. Speaking of which, we lovingly tell them that size doesn't matter (lie) and then proceed to check the thickness of fingers and shoe sizes of just about any man we come across. Maybe this is why we don't believe men when they tell us that ours are perfect just the way they are.

Unfortunately, our breasts really are tied to our sexuality. Not because of their physical shape, or pathetic lack thereof, but because of the way we perceive them. But how are we supposed to perceive them any differently when the alternative is using their pointy and centered nipples to poke our eyes out?

Maybe Britney's got it all figured out after all. Who needs reality when you've got show biz and the number of a really good plastic surgeon?

Me, I think I'll stick to leaving the lights off and sleeping in a supportive bra, while continuing to read the Farmer's Almanac to see if I can find some practical use for my tits. That and wait for "National Geographic" porn to come back in style.

BIO: Leigh Hughes is a talentless hack who is really good at starting things but not finishing them. She enjoys writing with many clichés, adverbs, rambling run-on sentences, haphazard POV switching, and way, way, too, many, commas.
She does, however, occasionally strike a peculiar favor from the gods and has had several pieces published in very highly regarded places. Seriously, if they were mentioned--you would undoubtedly be impressed. Mostly creative non-fiction, short fiction and poetry.
But, this is a fluke. Therefore, this bio will self-destruct so as not to alert said gods' attention to the aforementioned hack aspect of her writing, in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .

Write to Leigh at: .

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