Then I’d be boobless, my clothes would look funny, and I’d feel an odd sense of emptiness. I’ve caged you into terrible wire bound contractions that had no business being called bras. They poke, chafe, squish, ride up, slide down, pinch and malform you, all for the ridiculous expectation that you should ride high as when we were fifteen years old. Do we even remember being fifteen years old? If bras aren’t bad enough, I stuff you guys in to the crueler cages of corsets to achieve Elizabethan heights of ta-ta loftiness. No I wasn’t trying to commit suicide by suffocating myself between the two of you. Though I understand if you feared that, considering how close to my chin I had pushed you.

I hope you can forgive me. I am making amends to you now by finding properly fitted bras that take stress off of you, keeping you from hanging precariously or leaving you unsupported.

If you were my pets, SPCA would be looking askance at me. As it is, I know I give my pussy better attention than you guys ever get. My pussy gets nicer pets more frequently than you do. But do remember, at least I’ve not put ill fitting jewelry into you, which later got infected. Small blessings, right?

I admit to not giving you due credit in my life. Most of the time I’m just not conscious that you’re there. Which is funny, since it seems there’s a large percentage of the population that is so keenly aware of you guys that they forget I have a face or brains.

You’ve not given me any cause to complain. Neither of you give me any grief or pains. You’re so considerate to never cause me suffering any time during the menstrual cycle. The “girls” of other girls so often torment their owners with swelling and anguish. As long as I cradle you in just the right sports bras, you don’t even give me trouble while running.

Although I will admit that you make bear hugs really uncomfortable. You come between my friends and me.

The same goes for massage tables. My favorite deep tissue massages push you into my body and feels like the nipples are trying to burrow back in my chest cavity. Why don’t they make massage tables with booby dents?

Speaking of nipples, I do wish they were a bit more sensitive and erotically charged for me. Otherwise, you have been the best pair of boobies a girl could wish for. You grew on your very own to just the size I like. No aftermarket upgrades were needed for you.

In many ways you help me to bond with other women. We talk about you and your like quite a lot. Do men bond over balls like we women do over boobs? Somehow I don’t think so. If men bonded and commiserated over the hazards of cock or ball ownership as we babes do around mammeries, politics and wars would be quite different in this world.

For all of your fabulous boobiliciousness, I’ve neglected you. The good doctor reminds me during every pelvic exam that I ought to regularly check in with you. I’ve got all the good intentions to do that, but by the time I leave the doctor’s office, poof, the thought vanishes. Another year will go by until I reminded of it again.

Which is really dumb. I know better than that. Having lost a dear friend recently to cancer, I know just how important early detection is. Is it simple laziness or is it denial of mortality? While I don’t pay attention to you guys a whole lot, if I lost you, I know I’d miss you at an unfathomable level.

I promise to be better to you from now on.