humans are funny

Category: self-love

  • Tit. Talk. Tit. Talk. Tit. Talk.


    I’d like to be frank.
    Not a man named Frank. Just frank.
    Frank about boobs.
    Lots of people have them. I have two. They’re pretty cool.
    It took me a long, long, long time to think they’re pretty cool.
    When I was younger, I couldn’t be frank about my boobs. They shamed me.
    I was thirteen and hated myself for not having the hot tits of a developed woman. I wanted to be like Alysa Milano or Uncle Jesse’s wife on Full House. I had high standards, you see. And while all my other friends were sprouting, I was a boy with a ponytail.

    During that awkward junior high period, I HAD TO BE PERFECT. I can guess, but I’m not quite sure from where this controlling neurosis came. I insisted on straight A’s. I needed to have popular friends. And I spent hours… HOURS… in the school bathroom with my portable curling iron perfecting the wave of my bangs. I controlled all these elements, so the fact that I could not force my own breasts to grow was utterly painful. I wanted big boobs. I wanted to attract men with cars. I knew they were somehow connected.

    This was before the teenage plastic surgery craze of today, a time when silicone was still something only weird Californians knew about. I didn’t even think to beg my mom for implants. Instead I stole her bras. I think it’s pertinent to the story (sorry mom) to state that my mom’s bras were…um… very large. I filled them with anything at first. I went through shoulder pads, paper wads, and even water balloons. I settled on some skin-colored pads I got at the fancy swimsuit store. They weren’t my skin color; they were someone else’s skin color.

    I was sure these pads made me look like a pin-up. With this new set of perfect breasts, I pranced around like Rudolph, sure that this new, top-heavy bod would manifest the kind of guy with a Ford Escort or maybe a Geo Storm, the kind of guy who wore overalls with one strap unsnapped. Others didn’t share my vision. You see, everyone at school knew I stuffed. Not just because I miraculously grew mom-sized knockers one day. More because I was so careless. I wore very revealing bodysuits (yes, bodysuits) with my Bongo jeans, and the pads were constantly peeking out the sides. Plus, I didn’t really have any cleavage. It was just very obvious that something was amiss. Yet, in denial I stewed. So much so, that I wore those not-my-skin-color pads until they were really not my skin color. They turned black from daily use and sweat. And years of wear. Years. When I got a lifeguarding job at sixteen, I finally moved on to another form of padded bra that I could sew into my bathing suit. SEW! I had somehow convinced myself that nobody would like me if they saw the real size of my non-existent boobs.

    Finally, something clicked that set me free. I don’t remember what it was, but let’s say it was profound. Maybe I found two small pebbles in a clearing. I don’t know, but one day during my junior year I finally FINALLY finally ditched my pads (or cocoa puffs, as some of my peers called them). I embraced my small tits. And to this day, I wear them proudly like I would a polar bear skin if I were in some indigenous Eskimo tribe. I love them. They work well in tank tops. They point to people. They don’t really bounce around too much. They are rad. I’ll say it again: I fucking love my boobs.

    Society, however, feels otherwise. Now, after all this work to accept my imperfectly perfect pancakes, bra makers no longer make bras in my size WITHOUT padding. They don’t exist in regular stores. I cannot buy a bra that doesn’t come with its own version of the not-my-skin-color pads. Victoria’s secret is that small boobs are not allowed out in the world.

    WHAT?!

    I’ve come so far and now this. I refuse to go back to my thirteen-year-old ways. I no longer strive to meet men in overalls. I cannot digress.

    I’ve looked through racks and drawers and shelves for bras to find only items with cute names like ‘demi’ or ‘push-up’ or ‘Tshirt’– all full of styrofoam. If I want an actual bra in my small size that’s just made of lace or fabric, I have to special order it from Spain. Special order! From a special store not unlike Manny’s Big & Tall Emporium. Being frank about your small tits in America is just as rare as measuring in at 7 ft tall. I’m interpreting this to mean not that I have a strange body, but that American standards are ridiculous. And that European men will appreciate my breasts. One day when I am gone, you will know that I’ve moved to Madrid. And that I did it for the boobs (and also to stalk Javier Bardem).

    This may or may not be my boob shot by a fellow fan of small boobs, my fabulous photographer friend Leo Reinfeld.

  • Survey says… inspiration! Or broccoli.

    It’s 2011. Fuck.

    It’s now time for people to scoff at me and return my checks due to my failure to remember it’s 2011. Not that I write checks that often. Other people do. And those people are usually in front of me at the supermarket.

    Shit. This post isn’t so positive. One of my 2010 2011 resolutions is to think more positively. Wow, that shirt looks great on you.

    There’s a reason for the timely negativity. A reason for my cowering in the corner, very reluctant to welcome in a new year. It’s because 2010 2011 will be one of the biggest years in my professional career. I’ve planned it that way, so that’s how it’s going to be. Shit is going to happen. My vision board agrees.

    That also means that I’m going to have to make all that stuff happen. And that’s creating a lot fear and vulnerability all throughout my little body that is miraculously still pretty little compared to the amount of food I’ve eaten this holiday paired with alcohol in the hope that I’ll forget the fear and vulnerability.

    You, see, I have this dick of an ego, Lawrence, and he likes to chime in and tell me I’m a failure and that it’s stupid to actually try to be a full-time non-advertising writer because I’m just going to fail. But, rejoice! I read a book about dealing with dickface egos, and it said to write out Lawrence’s words with the non-dominant hand and then respond with the dominant hand. And let me tell you, Lawrence has some bad handwriting.

    It did teach me that my biggest fear is failure. And that I’m making failure out to be this horrible demon of a thing that I won’t be able to escape, a red X on my face like that on the faces of the Family Feud contestants who don’t know that the survey said broccoli.

    But then I thought more about it and realized that failing is my own invention.

    Some people think Obama is a failure. Others still really admire him (I swear. We’re out there.). But what’s really the most important is how he sees himself. He can choose to be mad at himself and listen to his jerky ego, or he can be proud of what he’s been able to accomplish and go to bed smiling.

    My point is that fear and failure live only in our own minds. And if we have the power to deem ourselves failures, don’t we also have the power to deem ourselves winners? Let’s choose that option. Let’s all be winners.

    I’m still unclear on the very objective failures like fathers who leave their kids and never call them until they’re in their twenties. That’s a parental failure, right? Well, I guess the kid could think the father failed, but if the father was doing the best he could at the time, he could still think of himself as a winner. See how I turned that around? I should really be a helpful guest on Jerry Springer.

    Is that show still on? If so, I can believe it. I spent a lot of time avoiding Lawrence by watching my mother’s television this holiday season. There are some really crap shows on. Cake Boss? Seriously? See how I’m starting to go all over the place now down here toward the end? My old self could say that this is a total writing failure. But my new self declares this post a winner.

    I’m coming out of hiding and am now prepared for 2010 2011, the best year yet. For real. Because I said so. Let’s enjoy it, fellow winners. Let’s be positive and make things happen. My, that shirt looks really, really good on you.

    UPDATE: I don’t really have a vision board.

    UPDATE #2: Tony Robbins called. He wants his post back.

    UPDATE #3: The guy who made up the joke about things calling and wanting their stuff back called. He said that shit is old.