I am about to leave for Maine. Back on Sunday, as usual. However, before I go, I would like to lodge a formal complaint against the Universe, for which I hear you are an intermediary.
Yesterday, I bought bras. I went in, wearing a 36 D. I came out, having purchased bras in the size of 36E! Which is a half size bigger than DD. I did not go down in band size, however, which is the norm for adult life cup size increase. Each bra cost me SEVENTY DOLLARS. This is entirely *acceptable* in today's society. My complaint is as follows:
It is entirely unacceptable to curse a five foot tall woman with breasts that are individually the size of her own head, a head that already is disproportionately large to her body. They cause me no end of fashion, health, and social grief. And now, now that I have figured out my new size? I have to shop in the *fat lady* section, land of yards of taupe elasticized lace. If I don't want to strap down my breasts with bras befitting women in their seventies named Olga from the Old Country, I have to spend HUNDREDS of dollars on *three* bras. Money that *I* do not have, because I have been unemployed for an ENTIRE YEAR. If I were to ever be in the position to take off my top in front of a romantic partner, I have the completely unfair choice of going cold broke on heavy hydraulics systems for my bosom, or presenting them with a view that is about as sexually alluring as pandas copulating in a pile of ecru spandex.
In conclusion, I feel that the universe owes me monetary reparations for the burden of my breasts. Imagine when I get pregnant! The only form of clothing that will get over my chest will be the ever so stylish mumu. My life is cursed, and these blobs of tissue on my chest are one of the various physical manifestations. I demand immediate and thorough recuperation of the many monetary, social, and emotional losses my breasts have caused me throughout my life.
Sarah "Tits McGee" Pinansky.