Debbie Does Drivel

BOOBARELLA

I mean my boobs are big. Big, as in I must use all capital letters B.I.G.
Their gigantuan statuesquness is much the topic of workaday conversation. People -- men and women -- cannot help but stare unapologetically at their supple engorginess.
It doesn't matter what I wear. Even if it starts out loose in the AM, the fabric stretches taut across my expanding milk filling upper section by noon.
I'm not sure what to do. It's not like I can wear baggy t-shirts to work, like I do at home (Kev just loves my all-cotton XXL post-pregnancy lingerie).
It's just not appropriate career-wise.
I mean, I'm telling you: my cones extend into my line of vision and all I see is my booby boobiness everywhere I go.
They're so BIG that a couple of co-workers pulled me into an office and whisperly suggested that I find a bra with more support, as if they make a 99 Z cup, people.
I don't want BIG boobs, life-sustainers though they may be. I want perky Amber Tamblyn boobies or that kid sis from Buffy the Vampire Slayer's nickels.
BIG boobs are burdensome. (HA! I initially spelled that "burdebsome.)

In fact, my boobs are so BIG, they're writing this post.