Today I was stabbed in the boob with an underwire, so I guess it’s time to buy a new bra.

Buying bras used to be easy, mostly because I wasn’t paying for them- Thanks, mom! And then later I had a brief stint shilling Angel cards and perfume at Victoria’s Secret. It was harder than you’d think. I spent hours in heels at the front entrance, deterring shoplifters. I often took migraines from the fragrance cloud of musk and grapefruit that hovered over the entire store. Shifts were spent fending off the advances of a stockroom employee named Herrold who liked to give backrubs and spontaneously broke out into a sweat from what he said was a head injury. But it was worth it. It was all worth it.

I could often buy bras for as little as five dollars. The fancier boob-cages were 30% off for employees and, once a year, we were allowed to get one bra of our choice for free.

And I know that this may all sound a bit ridiculous for those of you without chesticles but, like, do you know how expensive bras are? Do you know how much I have to pay for these boob-sweat sponges?

Fifty-Two-Motherbitchin-American-Dollars.

Give or take.

Semi-Annual Sale notwithstanding.

That is a lot of money for an uncomfortable apparatus to hold up human-udders that I never even asked for. Do you know what else I could spend that kind of money on?

And, yes, $52 for a medieval torture device is a lot for me. I’m a writer, which means I’m mostly a barista with an apron full of receipts I wrote story ideas on in a hurried serial-killer-esque scrawl. Do you know who people throw a lot of money at? I’m asking seriously because it’s definitely not writers. It’s also not baristas, I checked. Lawyers, maybe? Idk.

I did the math for you guys- which you should appreciate because I am so bad at math that when I was in high school one of my teachers called home to tell my mother he had no idea how I ended up in his class. I am that bad.

(Also, I haven’t forgotten, Mr. Lebron. I’ll never forget.)


I could buy roughly 13 cases of Diet Coke.

Assuming Target was doing their 3/$12 deals on twelve packs of Coca Cola products.

I could order 5 bowls of Chubby Pork Belly at Chego.

Probably not all at once, but I’m not ruling it out. It’s really important to believe in yourself. I am my biggest cheerleader, both literally and figuratively.

I could go to the Natural History Museum 4 times.

You’re probably wondering what you could possibly go four times to see at the Natural History Museum. Dinosaurs. I’d go to see Dinosaurs. Stop asking stupid questions.

I could buy 11 bars of Grandpa’s Pine Tar Soap.

I don’t have anything to clever to say here, I just fucking love this soap. It makes you smell like a forest fire. Or what I imagine the Bounty paper towel man’s flannel shirt smells like.

I could spend one night at Malibu Creek State Park.

At $45 a night that even leaves me $7 to spend on Marshmallows- the good brand, too, not that Market Pantry bullshit.

I could see Jurassic World in IMAX about 3 times.

I can and I will. You don’t know me.

I could buy 40 bottles of Tapatio.

I mean, am I just supposed to eat my egg-white-avocado omelet without it? Like an animal?


But yeah, no, I’ll probably throw a wad of crumpled twenties at my nearest Victoria’s Secret for a pair of bejeweled rib-knives because I have work tomorrow and this broken bra is making my chest look like a Picasso painting.

But I won’t be happy about it.

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