Dear Avid Reader.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about me but

Yes. Indeed. Perhaps it is the first thing you notice about me. Actually, in most cases (if not all,) I think it is. Yes, reader, I have been blessed with mounds of squishy fat that would make Shakira shriek “it’s Everest” before yodelling away on her many horses. Yes, my body has built ginormous, pointed curved balloons of sand that are attached to my chest. In nature, they act as storage for possible food, if I choose to spread my legs and plop out human shaped goblins. Yes, residing under my nose and above my stomach are outer flesh cartons that bounce painful when I run, causing black eyes and sore backs.

I’m big-boobed, alright. Now, a lot of this is because I am overweight and a lot of it is natural. Either way, nature has curved my skin and deposits left over food into breasts.: A commodity to those who are turned on them. Actually, if tits were currency, I’m raking it in – with a tiny Scrooge McDuck diving on them squealing with glee.

Many, somewhat falsely, put these massive human gourds on pedestal.

I mean, sidebar, I am one of them. I think melons of all shapes and sizes are bloody brilliant. They are so fucking wonderful and anyone wearing them (happily) should celebrate their jugs!

Anyway, back to the point, because of porn and our horny society who bank everything on these dirty pillows, we’ve tricked ourselves into believing that one type of rack is superior, and that it is one at an upward degree angle.

Of late, I’ve had a few sharp comments about the direction in which my orbs of delight point in when they are not fiercely strapped to my chest by that wretched torture device called a bra. Some are aghast as though I am calling the devil himself.  My saggy shooters are scorned at, laughed at, and, reader, it has poisoned my mind too. I now find myself wailing that my nip nips are tickling the edge of my belly button, rather than my chin.

Here’s the rub (oo-er) beautiful reader of mine: Boobs sag. Unless they are pumped full of Grade A Cement or, most popularly, silicone (and, you know, whatever floats your boats,) boobs of a more generous disposition are going to fly freely. It’s physics, guys. Gravity too adores pimped-out hubcaps and drags them Porky Pigs to the ground. Like an old man’s ball sack, my bowling balls dingle dangle down my body, causing a complex I had rather not expected. Because I usually flippin’ love my cannons. And you should too.

“Ah Sarah,” you cry, “go get your girls measured properly.”

Yes but as any breasted person can attest; bras are ne’er comfortable 24/7. At one point, those glorious fabric cups are going to either stab you mercilessly or constrict around your chest, causing your boulders to wail for attention. Bras are battling against Mother Nature themselves, after all, and after a while somethings going to give.

I’m sorry but there is no satisfaction quite like the one of releasing your bongo-bongos after a long day of confinement. It’s like the jailer has spared these mounds a punishment of asphyxiation death and they skip across the world wailing “FREEEEEEEEEDDDDDDDDDDDDOMMM” in bittersweet tears.

No person is born wearing this wired fabric cages and, therefore, no matter how heavenly a brassier is going to be, eventually it’ll be like an iron maiden.

I have a choice, reader, I do. I could use the will of Mighty Thor to pull up my big bad wolves so that I am constantly tonguing at my cleavage, succumbing to eventual agony. Orrrrrrrrrrrr I could relax a little, let these gals descend lower than what is our social precedent and to level that my body sees fit. God help us that we can’t begrudge anyone a little ease to their day to day, rather than justifying your hate-filled language to an ideology built from sexual attraction. Ugh.

So next time you stare and you realise that my nunga nungas  aren’t quite saluting the sun, standing for attention, please remember that the pull of the globe keeps these mini-ones in check.

Also remember this: My body is not for yours to ridicule. So fuck off, you judgemental twat.

This post is unofficially sponsored by Urban Dictionary’s many words for boobs.