While I am waiting for my hair to dry after my post-workout shower from 24hr Fitness and looking at my uploaded pics from Vegas, I ponder why it is such a big deal to have bigger boobs.

LET ME GET SOMETHiNG OFF MY CHEST

Men staring unwaveringly at my chest used to bother and angered me more if they looked away when caught. At age 13, my C cups confused my emotions on whether I should feel guilty for liking my massive growth spurt or be disgusted at some of the special attention from the “uncles” (creepy old men at clubs).

When we were in China, the pink tank top that never had any complaints were causing commotion from classmates who were embarrassed to be standing next to my almost DD pushed up knockers. Granted we were at the Buddhist temple, but it was hot and raining. Otherwise, I would not have any problems wearing just a bikini top. We already wore a condom, I mean a poncho, while watching Xi Hu Water Impressions in the rain for two hours. There’s only two instances I don’t mind getting wet: in the shower and in the pool =P

Did I mention an old man came up to me in Beijing and nonchalantly-blatantly put his hand on my left breast? Yea… no concept of personal space.

RED CARPET @ Ei8HT

Also, when my fellow breast-blessed best friend Bernadette and I were standing in line for the bathroom at Houston’s new club Ei8ht, an angry, flat-chested white girl came up and pointed an inch away from her boobies and shouted, “THOSE ARE NOT REAL, YOU’RE ASiAN!!!” It is not the first time we have been accused of surgical enhancement, not that there’s anything wrong with plastics. However, I should never defend what God gave me nor do I have to argue that they are naturel.

Just the other night, even the lover shared his “observation” that I must like wearing low cleavage clothes. Perplexed and a bit offended, I retorted what I thought was overtly obvious since he just finished telling me how much he loved my big tits while I was on top, “did you ever think that they have been a bane to my fashionista freedom?” Many a cute outfits I sadly sacrificed in order to conform and not offend anyone. “Cannot pass the biggie boobs” was clearly my slogan behind most fitting rooms since I can remember. In Asia, I am considered odd and way too big;  wo shi hen da. While shopping inside China’s trendy malls,  Josh and MC can attest that there was no point trying on anything for I was beyond XXL. Imagine how frustrating it is to buy only shoes and belts?

It is not my fault they do not fit or it looks like I am spilling over. Don’t you all think I haven’t tried to squeeze them into smaller sizes? I end up short of breath or popping buttons and splitting seams. For many years, I have contemplated getting breast reduction. Having huge boobies constantly afflict me with back pain, it should not give me head and heart aches.

Kim Basinger once said, “I don’t have time to be classified as difficult, and I don’t have time to care.”

So, when I do find a dress that fits me well in ALL the right places or a costume I can clearly day dream about all day because it makes me feel good, I am go’n wear it, dagnabbit!!! It is never ever for you. Ergo, if I am aware you have eyes to see and am not offended when you are hypnotized, then spare me the psychobabble.

I am not into that mainstream stifling, stereotypical bondage mentality that good girls should only wear sweaters. Heck, I love layers in the fall. However, in Houston’s hot and humid summer, I prefer tube tops and sarongs! Need I remind people that this is the land of the free or that if you cannot think for yourself, then you’re doomed anyway? You do not have to remind me that when I look like an exotic dancer (stripper is such a derogatory term, unless sexy is in front of it), the visual porn will attract the wrong men and advertise the wrong message. First of all, I am not one of those girls that flaunt and use it just because they have it. I  have yet to accept all the drinks brought to me by bartenders. Those that know me can attest I can buy my own, thank you. I have found that men are perplexed by me once our conversation starts. “You are not as I imagined you to be.” To which I reply, “Oh, yeah? That’s because you were looking down there instead of up here.”

Just goes to show you that it is strongly better to be disliked for who you really are than to be loved by who you are not.

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