To begin: I won a stationary giveaway from Becca at Simply Cute. I recieved the package a few days ago and was surprised by her generosity and choice of adorable stationary. I’ve scanned a few to encourage you to check out her website and apply for the giveaway.

The travel section and the plugboard are currently unavailable only because I’m in an awfully good mood and I’d hate to spoil it by failing to get the plugboard to work. The radio.blog has new tunes.

I spent my day at the beach and accelerated my chances of getting skin cancer by deliberately disregarding the “Apply repeatedly and liberally” warning on my suntan lotion bottle. I thought the company was just exaggerating. After all, I reasoned, I’m from the island of Puerto Rico. I can’t sunburn. It’s genetically impossible. If anything, I’ll turn a nice sexy, golden brown. That didn’t happen. Instead, I’m a painful shade of crimson. To add insult to injury, I also fell three times on the beach in front of other half-naked beachgoers while attempting to maintain my sense of balance through the tug and push of each wave. Even if, let’s say, I’d have gashed myself on a sharp seashell or I lost my limb to an attacking shark; I can’t help but laugh because that is precisely what eating it is all about. During my trip to Tokyo, I spent the majority of my time “eating it”: nearly tumbling down a flight of subway steps, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding a convoy of bikers while walking in the bike lane of the sidewalk. The next time your friend ungracefully falls on their ass, the best thing to do is point, laugh and exclaim, “Dude, you so ate it!”. If perhaps this friend of yours doesn’t quite complete the act of “eating it” a, “Dude, you almost ate it!” will suffice.

I’ve made no secret of the practicality of small boobage. To further illustrate my point, I found a Japanese advertisement for a vitamin that apparently adds several centimeters to the bustline and emphasis marks just to make you sure you notice them. Behold:

Notice her forlorn expression, as if to say, ‘How I long for ginormous ta-tas’.

I’m sorry, RiCaRdO, for not acknowledging that you are indeed a boy with a penis and I should not have been so crass as to assume that all my readers had vaginas. Therefore I would like to thank all the ladies and gentleman, who have stopped by my blogthing as of this moment.

Today, I’m going to make a valid and rational argument for small ta-tas. Little melons. Tiny funbags. Cutie boobies. It is my understanding that someone has led the majority of the American (and Asian, have you see those Hentai films?) population to believe that ginormous breasts are desirable in a woman.

I’d like to clarify just how un-fun 38D’s can be and why, my petite princesses, you should be perfectly happy with your adorable B cups. Whenever I go shoppping with my 34B girlfriend, we’ll spend mere minutes sifting through lacey, colorful, little pieces of triangular fabric that hang on the $7.99 rack at Ross until she spots a cute little push up that satisfies her cleavage. Meanwhile, I have to shop in the obscure “Astronomically Huge Tits” section of departments stores to find the specially made $49.99 bra that utilizes the same suspension cable technology used on the Golden Gate Bridge.

Since I’m not the type to flaunt them, I do my best to draw as little attention to them as possible. I have never known the joys of tube tops, spaghetti straps, string bikinis and halters. I lament the fact that Forever 21 and Mossimo are unconcerned with the plight of thousands of girls with larger than average breasts and no where to put them.

I’m looking forward to the day when I can offer up my maracas to science and be the first ever to participate in Breast Transplantation. No longer will my coconuts enter the room before I do. No longer will they be the subject of speculation (Well, are they real or aren’t they?). I’m sure there’s a young, impressionable, 32A young lady who would kill for my 38D’s and she can have them.