The War on Underwear

Or rather, under garments. Namely, bras.

I detest wearing bras.

Up until recently, they were a required part of planning an outfit. Otherwise, the gods knew what the girls would do given to their own devices and gravity’s puckish personality. To be honest, I didn’t trust the bitches to not make me look like a fool. Then weight loss, exercise, yada, yada, yada . . . . And one afternoon as I’m tossing on whatever clothes my hand hits—because I’m woefully close on time to walk the couple blocks to pick up the Kiddo from school—I decide, “Screw it. I’m not impressing anyone today and my back hurts.”

Secret? It always hurts. Thus is my burden to shoulder.9004522050_c36c02bb2e_z

Or not shoulder. With the weight loss came a bonus, smaller breasts. A little targeted exercise and, hey, they’re not looking too shabby–but holy shit, layer up in the cold, honey. But for the most part, they’re giving the middle finger to gravity. I’ve been remiss during the holidays to exercise, but not a huge deal. I make time in my day to work out. Otherwise I wouldn’t walk.

This is a weird topic, just roll with it. I remembered at the last minute before calling it a night that I hadn’t scheduled a post. This is what’s left of my brain after ten hours of editing: tits.

You’re welcome, readers.

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2 thoughts on “The War on Underwear

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