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Updated: Sep 25

Swollen tits!


Swollen tits at 37, what gives?


T'wasn't not one time that it was this bad in the past 20 years. Not one time that my tits hurt so severely.


I roll over at night - fuck! My left tit, ugh, smashed like a grapefruit in a juicer. Ouch!

. . . Also, who even likes a grapefruit? It's bitter sour and makes my teeth feel numb. And mostly disappointing is the spoon in the grapefruit. Hey - you're not fooling anyone you rich bastards! Whatta ya even gettin' on the spoon anyway, huh? A little juice? A little pulp?


I flip over at night again, ugh! My right tit - so painful! Like it's being stretched too far across my chest. Oh, the torment! I wanna rip it off, but then . . . I won't be pretty.


Ah, accursed life! Just as soon as I'm able to fill a B cup, YOU - universe, you shitty karmatic life, you make me hate them - my supply utters. My bountiful, sweet, lardy teat with an erect ovaly ring of blush who's only known a suck or two.


Middle aged puberty be damned - for I refuse to hate my bosom! I relish in the fact that I - girl once known as 2x4 - now has chest!


No matter how much these fatty rib torpedoes ache, I will never forget the days of rolled up booty socks pinned to the inner lining of my off-brand brazier. Of the nights spent, praying and wishing for the dirty pillow lumps to come and practicing in front of the mirror with balled up tissues stuck in with precision - not too tightly balled up, gotta keep it a little loose so there's a bounce effect.


These boobs! Ugh, they're so bloated. Puffy and tender and firm and I can't get comfortable. Naked, I walk around with no top for I will not be topped right now! I am inflamed and too heavy and I cannot bear the weight of a shirt or a bra of sport.


Those tits, those tits I wanted - well, here they are! And just as soon as you get what you want, you don't want it anymore.


Well, not me! I love these goddamned tits. I love 'em! And I'll hate 'em forever.





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