If you are a parent, read at your own risk.

EDIT: Colin informed me he was embarrassed by my post because not only do my parents read this (I asked them to stop, so if they got offended it's their own damn fault), but his parents read it too. Thinking of my boyfriend's parents reading about my rack embarrassed me as well. But somehow, I'm not ready to take this post down yet. I just wrote it, and I don't even know if it's ready to disappear so soon.

I'm putting up this temporary post to thank all the people who responded to my stupid, emo comment solicitation, convincing me not to give up on my art. Though I'm surprised the threat of giving up my art is what everyone took from that. Really, I've already kind of given up art. I'm writing a stupid blog about stupid things. And I'm a little drunk. But this post is for a limited time only, so get it before I take it down. For most of the people who commented, I decided to reward you by talking about tits. That's right, tits. But mom and dad, you can stop reading now. Not that any of this would surprise you too much. There's a picture of me as a three year old standing in front of a mirror with my hands on my hips, checking myself out with my top stuffed with socks to look like enormous breasts. Really, they were ridiculously, cartoonishly large breasts. I was wearing this pink cotton dress (I didn't wear pants for a while because I couldn't button them myself), and I'm pretty sure I had stuffed myself in an attempt to look like Barbie. With my stubby three year old body and short brown haircut, you could see the dissatisfaction in my face. I loved Barbie, who had all kinds of sexy adventures while I was stuck in the body of a child. I played with Barbie for far too long, and even though she had spurred my own (as well as millions of other little girls') fascination with breasts, I was a late developer. As I grew up, I stretched out, but not forward. In late middle school, I didn't care about having large breasts, I just wanted breasts, like all the other girls had. Then one day in early high school, I woke up no longer a skinny flat-chested kid, but a somewhat chubbier girl with an enormous rack. It happened so quickly and so late that I was unable to view them normally. I got distracted by them in class. They caught my glance as I walked by windows, and I thought, damn, what enormous tits I have. For a while I wore these tight sweaters, fascinated by the shape and weight of actual breasts on me. Of course, it was also a little strange because breasts meant that I might become an unwanted sexual object. I remembered that an English teacher on whom I had a crush off and on throughout my freshman year complimented me on a shirt I wore the first day of school. By the end of the year, I still wore the same shirt but couldn't button it anymore and wore a tank top underneath instead. Seeing me every day, I thought he must have noticed, and this both mortified and interested me. It was the age-old conflict of being a busty sex-kitten getting in the way of your desire to also be perceived as a bright young woman. Somehow you want to be both, but it doesn't work that way. Now the thoughts about my button-down shirt and English teacher only mortify me. My sisters developed early, and always seemed ashamed and awkward concerning their endowments, like they were weird, foreign flotation devices. Now that I'm in Japan, where breasts are rare, I work on hiding them more. I slouch, I wear baggier shirts, I cross my arms over my chest (a lot of this is to avoid groping from four-year-olds). I can't say that I love my breasts and we have a special bond like those women and their vaginas in the vagina monologues. But I've still got love for a nice pair.