missteenussr: my tits are the pits

Today’s guest post is brought to you by one of the most talented writers you’re likely to find in the blogosphere today: the amazing Brooke Takhar of missteenussr.com. She’s a goddess of grammar, a queen of style, and best of all, she knows how to bring the funny.

Once you go Brooke, you’ll never go back.

If you were one of those girls who read about the bust exercises in Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret and then did them secretly EVERY NIGHT FOR MONTHS, only to find out that they are actual and complete bullshit, then you must you must you must increase your bust read this post. Seriously, Damien. It’s all for you.


True Confession (that if you’ve met me is actually no surprise at all): I have no tits. I wish I knew why my chest is so fucking flat. The other ladies in my family have handfuls of sweater meat. Did I piss off the feminine puberty gods in 1994 by shaving my head and wearing cut-off men’s pants? If so, I’d like to say: that look didn’t get me laid either so OK UNIVERSE, POINT TAKEN.

I gained weight in my twenties when I didn’t understand a steady Cool Ranch diet is actually not cool at all. Still no tits. The weight was instead lavishly distributed into meaty thighs, swaying upper arms and the sack that became my stomach. My boobs — still pristine mini-triangles of bullshittery.

I had a kid. The one up side of 10 months housing a beast that sucks you dry from the inside out, that all the pregnancy rags and tomes squeal about, is the incredible “busting-out bust” side effect. I made it to a robust A cup. Filled that fucker.

They say A is for Effort. I say A is for Actually Totally Devastating. I’m so small they don’t make my size in some bras. So when I find one that fits, I wear it back to back (to back) until it smells like a razorback gorilla used it for a tampon.

I’m so depleted of natural chest resources they’re like the last half-glug of muffin batter you pour into the 12th muffin liner, sad and alone and waiting to burn for sure. That’s me. Try that statement on for size (IF IT FITS) and understand why I was always SHIT at flirting. It’s like asking someone to build a (sex) house with no hammer. Impossible.

That feminine part of me that’s supposed to get kicked awake the first time a guy (most likely creepy, probably blue-collar) leers at my chest is fucking Rumpelstiltskin.

There are worst fates in life, I know. My face is totally viable for public consumption and I use my smile and sailor mouth to carry me through the rough seas of Titless Wonder-dom. I can run with no bra on, my shirts don’t drape weirdly, and I never have trouble eating a banana in public. As I age, my boobs won’t have to be air-lifted up into a nude-coloured support pulley system.

Small victories for a small-titted woman. Fuck it; I’ll take ‘em.



Brooke Takhar is the author of missteenussr.com. She lives day to day hoping she can one day just do what she like. She likes jeans, ponytails, songs with galloping drums and the word ‘f-ck.’ Her work can also be found on BLUNTmoms.