My boobs and I have come to an agreement over the years. They will hang down to my belly button. I will bitch, moan, and threaten to hack them off. It’s a good arrangement for them.

They get to hulk around on my chest, making running and any other bouncy activities impossible. At one point, I tried strapping myself in with an ace bandage. It worked loose. I spent the rest of that jog in the traditional cross-armed clutch known by large breasted women the world over as the “Jesus, these fucking things cancel breathing every time they jounce” run.

They get to humiliate me in public.… Read the rest