Last minute shopping

Before jumping back into the holiday fray after everyone's naptime is over and their hunger returns, there's a very special shout-out I want to give today. It's not to the people I love, who I try to talk to directly at this time of year if no other; it's not to the people I hate, who I don't hate anymore because December 21 is the Let-go-of-that-shit Day in the Church of La Spliffe. It's not to people at all. It's to my tits.

After a brutal workout this morning (trying to get my hunger sharp enough to truly appreciate the culinary delights awaiting me) I had a pure moment of amour-propre-tetons as I undressed and saw this sweet-ass pair in the mirror. I know there are nicer breasts out there; don't get me wrong. But my darling tits, I want you to know right now: I wouldn't trade you for any goddamn rack in the world.

We've been through almost everything together. Remember the day you'd sprouted out of nowhere and made my family laugh because your undersides got covered in breadcrumbs when I leant over the table? Remember where we bought our first whore-y bra? Remember the hours of fun we've had when our favourite men have had fun with you? Remember the orgasmerrific denouement when we posed for that British artist we had a crush on in Italy the day before we left town forever? That was you, ladies. You, just by being you, got us what my brain was too smitten and stupid to ask for. I love you for it.

I know that as the years go by, gravity and the fulfillment of our biological destiny will change the way you look and act, but if anything I'll love you the more. If I ever lose you, I'll try to pick up the pieces of my life and move on. But then if I lose you, I don't know how much longer I can move on for, because there's not a cure right now. I'm convinced that in the not-too-distant future, people will look back on our ways of dealing with cancer, particularly those specific to women, and shudder at the barbarity, guesswork, and pissing-in-the-dark of it all. I hope the three of us can make it through until then. Never leave me, babes. Please. I fucking love you.

And to those of you who happen upon this while panicking because you haven't bought all the crap you need for some special lady, why don’t you consider making a donation in her name? Hmm? Hmm? You wouldn’t even need to haul your ass off the chair, and it's a great present. Because I don’t know anyone anymore who hasn’t cried themselves to sleep over the ‘c’ word. Not to mention the lady in question, no matter how fucked up her body image is, probably loves her tits, deep down, just as much as I love mine. And we hope you love them too.