Tits in a wringer

Tomorrow is “T” day. I have a mammogram. I haven’t had one in 3 years because I didn’t have any insurance for a bit and because I hate the thought of vice grips on tender parts. I realize it can save my life. One saved my cousin’s life. I just don’t like seeing what looks like miles and miles of my flesh squished painfully between 2 planes of glass. Oh, yeah and standing there shirt and bra off in the cold while they develop the film is so much fun. Because then you have NHOs and they want to take another. Or the year I stupidly was reading a book with a lesbian sex scene and got a little hot and bothered when they decided they wanted another view, boy, was that fun. NOT!

I have this awful fear that once they have stretched out they won’t snap back and for the rest of my life I won’t be able to go braless on the weekends because I’ll trip myself and fall. And if Alison isn’t home they will find my rotting carcass with the stretched out boobs and laugh. Or that I will be able to jump rope with them. I’d have to invent some sort of rollup device to winch them back into a bra. And what if it broke? Would they go flapping around like the “walloping window blind”? It’s bad enough now that I can’t run braless or I would give myself 2 black eyes and knock myself out.

No woman designed that machine ’cause if men had to put their tender parts in one no way that machine would have gone on the market. The only revenge we get is when a man has to have them because the less you have the more it can hurt.

So, I’m going.