WARNING: THIS ENTRY IS ABOUT BREASTS

Ask the kids to leave the room, because not only am I talking about breasts here, I'm talking about breasts that are not filled with goo in Ziploc bags inside of women who have been made to feel so inadequate by their society that they paid money for doctors to slice their breasts open and have plastic bags of goo placed inside them. And if the kids find out that breasts aren't supposed to be hard (or touching your chin), they are going to be confused and it's going to be a DISASTER.

I just want to put this out there: from this moment I am boycotting the show "Medium". I just don't feel comfortable perpetuating the myth that if you have breasts that are real and on the, ahem, larger side, they will stick straight up and pointed towards the ceiling when you're lying down on your back.

Do you know what I'm talking about? Because she has her little psychic dreams, there are a ton of scenes where Patricia Arquette is in bed. She has large, non-plastic breasts and it is SO OBVIOUS she is wearing a bra. WHO DOES THAT?! NO ONE, THAT'S WHO. Because when you're that size, the bras are not built like lovely little delicate pieces of flitty lingerie. They are like utility belts; sturdy, not pretty, and used to haul large things around all day.

I don't know about Ms. Arquette's specific anatomy (other than the fact that she has no neck, but that's an issue for another entry), but when a human lies down wearing a bra like that, and I'm not going to get too personal here because I've made it a habit not to discuss my breasts on the internet (anymore...), one might find that the underwire might dig into one's ribcage and cause one to cry from the pain and discomfort and possibly get violent. Seriously. A couple of months ago, I noticed two weird marks on my inner arm that looked like bruised puncture wounds. Weird and unnerving. After much detective work (i.e. freaking out and googling "mystery marks on arm please no weird diseases" and calling my mom in a panic), I discovered that it was no strange exotic illness. Rather, the wire on my bra had gone rogue! You guys, I am so used to being in pain from that damn thing that I DID NOT NOTICE WHEN IT CAUSED ME PHYSICAL HARM.

I say ENOUGH, enough already. I'm not proposing we burn our bras, ladies. But I AM saying that if men want a large-breasted "special night-time companion" (that was in case you didn't get those damn kids out of the room when I ALREADY WARNED YOU for God's sake), we need to do our part so that they will be prepared and not alarmed when things aren't quite so Arquette-esque (Patricia. They should hopefully not be expecting David. Things get a bit confusing when Alexis enters the picture...).



(Also...they shouldn't expect you to, like, see dead people or anything. I mean, that's true for all women. No one has proven that breast-size has anything to do with psychic abilities. And ladies...if a scientist tries to get you to participate in such a study, for the love of God ask for some credentials.)