A letter to my Lesser breast.
You can’t be blamed for all of it. My body was assembled by a trainee who accidentally pulled all of my left-side parts from the “seconds” bin. From the brain aneurysm in the left side of my head to the crumbled sesamoid bone in the ball of my left foot, it’s all faulty. Installed at weird angles, crooked, gimpy and defective. And at this point, it’s held together with super glue and duct tape.
Lesser breast, with your inverted nipple, didn’t have the good looks of the well-formed Better breast. Sure, the two of you together, as a set, were impressive, flashable. Enough to get me and some friends back stage at a Suburbs concert in High School. Enough to not draw ridicule when I happily agreed to participate in a friend’s play about nudity a few years ago. Over one thousand people saw my breasts (and all the other pieces) in a family-friendly show about body image. Very few breasts get stage time like that. You were lucky.
Over the years, you must have sensed you weren’t the favored breast, but now actively trying to kill me seems extreme revenge. There are other ways you could have asked for attention. Frankly, this is why I never had kids. They all turn on you, in the end. You just can’t control what they’ll do. Like become a serial killer. Or a Republican.
I think we’ve turned a corner on your usefulness. Once perky, now you’re just heavy, take up a lot of space and trap sweat. I’m boycotting the proper undergarments needed to prop you up to the plane of your former glory. They’re devices of torture, digging in, smushing, poking, chafing and itching. My base emotion is “light homicidal” and the discomfort of a proper bra could result in the unfortunate death of someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t want those around me to be in danger, so I wear fake bras almost exclusively now. Coobies. That’s the name. Coobies. For your boobies. They offer very little support, but they’re also very comfortable, so I love them.
What I’m trying to say, Lesser breast, is that if we find out tomorrow that you have to leave me, I won’t miss you. I suspect that I will only have to have a hunk of you carved out, so you will live the rest of our life looking like a squashed loaf of bread. Whatever. I don’t care. So be it. Seriously, though, if you pull this shit again, or give Better breast any ideas, you’re gone.