When I was around 13 years old I remember looking in the mirror at my chestal region and thinking, ‘these are gonna be awesome in a few years when they’re bigger!’ A few years later with nothing, and then a few years after that with more nothing, I finally came to the conclusion that my boobs finished baking long ago.
The tiny two was all I was ever going to have. I tried to fight nature. I massaged them to death, I asked my doctor to give me the highest hormone birth control possible hoping that would trick them into growing, I took some sort of voodoo magic horse pills claiming to increase cup size but in actuality just made you burp up herbs for hours. These little suckers remained staunchly themselves. They were not budging. I hated it. I wore padded bras (still do. sorry bros) and it took me until my early 20s to even dream of taking my shirt off if I was letting a guy do some things to my things. (sexiest sex euphemism ever!)
Eventually I seemingly made peace with their size and resigned myself to a lifetime of not being able to fill out a bathing suit. The idea of a boob job entered my mind occasionally, but I didn’t think of it as a serious option for a couple reasons: 1. If my body didn’t react well to the surgery and I got sick or something, I’d have put myself through suffering for fucking tits. 2. If implants made it harder to detect breast cancer, I’d have also just done that to myself. Plus, hi, expensive.
But recently, the thought of actually doing it kept popping up in my head and I figured I had nothing to lose by at least going for a couple consultations. In most offices, they’re free, so why not? Several months ago, I went through with it. Because when in LA you do as the LA bitches do and you consider slicing up your shit with a scalpel.
Here is what happened. (more…)