» Breasts

Breasts are boring
I have large breasts, a G or an H depending on the bra. They're boring. I don't think about them unless my back hurts, the bra rides up, or the underwire digs in. They're just there.

On the other hand, most media references to breasts seem to mean "breasts such as are worn by 18-year-old girls in cartoons: basketball-sized and bouncy as a basketball, hemispherical, mounted high on the ribcage, and bearing nipples like pacifiers." Further, it seems assumed that girls who bear such breasts love their enormous breasts and think and talk about them all the time and find reasons to run chest-first into every man they meet, or (if they can manage it) to wear a tank top or a tight, cleavage-baring blouse or a bikini or, better yet, to somehow manage to be naked, giggling, and jouncing about like a plate of Jell-o. These girls call them "boobs" or "titties" or even "the girls" and at worst only pout ineffectually if other people talk about them in casual conversation. These breasts are sort of like giant, retarded kittens that such young women haul around and present for viewing and discussion several times a day. (They do not appear on older women, say 30 or 35 or somehow even older, who have large breasts only if they are fat or raddled old slags.)

Almost the comics I've seen with giant breasts in them are written and drawn by men, and the giant breasts play a prominent (ha) role in the plot if possible, as is the case in webcomics: week-long binges of sassy bra-buying, getting hit in the face with one's own breasts, failing to fit comfortably in crowded elevators with horny men, etc. What joy! These breasts are much more interesting than real breasts, which just sit there 99.5% of the time.

I'd have them off tomorrow if the surgery didn't leave such hideous scars. As it is, having large breasts is the lesser evil, $100 bras or no.
(Mon 10th May 2010, 17:18, More)

» Panic Buying

Why I no longer bother with Christmas
Well, at least I don't bother with my family.

See, one year I actually tried. My mother had gotten her ears pierced late in life, liked emeralds, and liked small earrings, so I got her emerald studs. My sister loves guns (yes, we are American) and likes things that go on the wall, so I went to eBay and got two gun ads from 1950s magazines--one a sign-up ad for the NRA and one some ad for some rifle--and mounted them nicely in nice frames. I bought her husband, my brother-in-law, some Mickey Mouse-themed bank, since he likes Mickey Mouse (and guns).

My mother thanked me profusely and has never once worn the earrings, so far as I know. She has, however, worn tiny Starship Enterprises that dangle from her earlobes.

My sister smirked sickly at my efforts, as if only a retard like me could think that she might like gun memorabilia. And the bank was apparently just not right, either, as my brother-in-law accepted it with a falsely hearty "Ah, Mickey!" that implied that it was probably better than a pornographic trivet, but not much.

My mother just gives me money nowadays. My sister? Her latest effort included a mini mag-lite and a pair of earrings made from tiny dysfunctional dice (each one lacks the one- and six-spot sides). None of us understand any of the other, we're all just clogging up one another's houses with non-biodegradable evidence that we don't understand one another, and you know what? I quit.

From now on, it's nothing but panic buying from me, or at best sending family members crap via Amazon. The hell with it. At least crappy books can be pulped.
(Sun 25th Dec 2005, 2:19, More)

» The Onosecond

Not as good as some, but ...
I was on the receiving end of this one. I work at a university, and one of the department secretaries CC:ed everyone--including the faculty--on a personal email about how much she and her interlocutor had come to dislike their jobs and about how all the interesting professors had left.

If you've ever talked much to a professor, you might know that all professors consider themselves fascinating. I never have heard a reaction from any of them, though. Funny, that.
(Fri 27th May 2005, 20:48, More)

» Losing Your Virginity

yuck
So I'd been dating this guy my senior year of high school. He was a major prick who felt put-upon and unappreciated no matter what, and I broke up with him badly (I bungled it) just as we were about to go to the same university.

He had managed to persuade me that I was a walking collection of flaws, blunders, sheer bitchiness, and failures. So when, one summer afternoon between high school and university, he came on to me and we ended up going to bed, I thought "Why not? It's not like anyone else will ever want to sleep with me." (This is a man who was in danger of passing the 300-pound line. No, I don't know what I was thinking.)

So I get on top, he squeezes his eyes shut and humps. After a couple of minutes of me regarding his face, he finally opens his eyes to see what's going on on my end, sees that I'm just kinda watching--no, he really wasn't doing anything other than humping with his eyes screwed shut--and says "Are you bored?" I say "yes" and he bursts into tears. I forget how I got out of there.

Later I found out he told a lot of people that I had come on to him, had been boinking him vigorously and then had suddenly announced I was bored and just got up and left. When confronted, he said that people remembered different things differently and mumble mumble mumble.

I didn't go to his wedding years later. Poor woman. I hope he hasn't squished her.

//Tullia
(Sat 5th Mar 2005, 22:49, More)

» Flirting

Mark for Flirting 101: C-
So I am (currently) an assistant professor, what I think the British call a assistant lecturer, in English. At the end of one recent academic year, two of my students and I went off for a beer in the nearest campus pub.

One of these students was a very cute slender girl of East Asian descent, and as we entered the pub a large drunk guy offered her a greeting, a fist bump or something like. She didn't want to, so I returned the fist bump. And why not?

I'll tell you why not: the drunk guy showed up at our table and started hitting on me. I was then 37 or so, overweight, and very married, so I had assumed that I was a neutral actor, large breasts or no. Nope! And yet it was not a total loss, as everything then went into a happier world where nothing made any goddamn sense, just as I like it.

"Man, I been hitting on girls all day and nothing. So whadda you do? You a grad student?" "Professor for these guys' class." "So you're a professor, huh." "Uh-huh." "Really? So you got a PhD? And the whole nine yards?" "Yep, PhD and everything." "Wow. Cool. Hey. Paging Dr. Love. Dr. Looooooove! Paging Dr. Looooooove," the drunk guy crooned, "Doc! Tor! LoooOOoooove," as my non-cute-girl student buried his face in his hands. "So, hey, Doctor Love, I guess this isn't gonna happen, huh," Drunky hazarded. "Nuh-uh." "Okay, I'm'a go hit on that girl over there at the bar. And maybe I'll still see you around, Professor ... ?" as he offered me a slightly hope-laden hand to shake. And in my only decent come-back ever, I replied:

"Love."

The guy had the presence of mind to crack up, and also to inform me two minutes later, "Hey, Professor Love, she shot me down!" as he sat there with his hand hovering one centimetre over the girl-at-the-bar's ass.

He didn't even look that drunk.
(Thu 25th Feb 2010, 9:21, More)