I must have cursed myself when I wrote about my recent joy and love for my ladies, because I have become the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Mom. Just imagine what that character would be if it was female. Simply insert 2 of his heads right under the cute little neckerchief. If only I could be a Fembot version and the girl parts could expel marshmallows to reduce their puffery. Or perhaps there could be a team of Boob Busters so these parts of me would not take over a city. It's getting to be a bit much. And it's not over, there is more to come. We should all be scared.
It's really like shopping for jeans when looking for something to contain the third trimester bosoms. In and out of 4 stores that cannot help me. It's not like I am looking for three-legged pantyhose people! I just need a freaking bra, ONE BRA. In desperation of a quick pick-me-up I stopped by a make-up counter for a new pressed powder. Maybe I can put more effort into dressing my face to take my attention away from The Blobs. Maybe it would help me forget these two whom have consumed what was left of my torso.
I stepped into the last fitting room of the day, 6 hopefuls in hand. Not. A. Single. One. Would. Do. I let the tears of frustration and fatigue drop onto the wobbly shelf below and broke out my new pressed powder before facing the long, poorly supported walk back to my car. Naturally, I passed dozens of teenage, happy B cups taunting me.
