And now, the end is near…they’ve finally reached, their last unfurling.

That’s right, my friends…the day after tomorrow, at 10 a.m., my silly fat ass is going under the gottdamned knife to lose these two fleshy behemoths otherwise known as my breasts.

That’s right…as of Friday, you may all henceforth call me “Slim Bolding” — because there will be NARY a chi-chi left on this dame’s chest. I am going small — and when I say small, I mean tiny. I am talking going from a “G”, to a small “B.” I am just over 5′ 1”. Yeah. They are VAPOR, baby.

A quick history of these formerly milky monsters will let you know that I have been suffering under the staggering weight of them since high school. Childbirth, of course, compounded my agony and humiliation…and the weight gain that later came with pre-diabetes sealed my fate: pain, pain, and more pain. For as long as I can remember, I have been stacked beyond belief. That’s not to say that I don’t acknowledge and appreciate all that they have done for me; I do. They fed and sustained my three precious babies and provided much hands-on fun for all those with whom I have banged around throughout the years. However, enough is enough. I am done.

I cannot golf (not that I ever would, but that’s hardly the point here) as I am unable to follow through on a swing. I cannot play tennis (not that I ever would, as I much prefer lounging on my bed reading zines and sipping iced tea) as all that jogging and jostling does little towards returning the ball, and loads towards illustrating what a set of rocks in socks bouncing about would look like. My back hurts, I have bra-strap ruts in the tops of my shoulders that would put The Erie Fucking Canal to shame, and I won’t even talk about the underboob sweat factor for fear of bringing up your lunch.

They’re not fun, they’re not cute, they’re not sexy, and they’re not easy. I want breasts that are effortless — breasts where you don’t have to do that little “tittie hop” to get them up and into your bra. And I want pretty bras from Victoria’s Secret…not those Iron Maidens from the Sears “Iron Matron” Collection. I want to wear tank tops and tube tops and NO TOPS, goddamnit. I wanna be FREE. The Chesti From Bucharesti shall exist no more.

Let’s face it…some women were meant to have big boobs — and some women were NOT. Big boobs contribute to a pose that I am in no way interested in communicating to others. Pamela Anderson? Definitely a BIG BOOB GAL — and since she wasn’t born with them, she got a little help from her friendly, neighborhood plastic surgeon. And so shall I. Huge hooters look marvelous and apt in a carefully shredded black “Motley Crue” t-shirt…but NOT so marvelously apt when you’re wearing a chartreuse thriftstore cardigan over an old black, floral witch dress from the 50s. I want to look youthful and exuberant – not like I could breastfeed a nation, which is most definitely the current pose I am working: International Wetnurse Of Mystery. Fuck that. God fucked up when he parked these missiles in this silo. Be gone!

In closing, some people have asked me about the inevitable scarring that I will bear as a result of this procedure, and to them I say: I would rather be Esmeralda Frankentittie any fucking day, than to carry these saggy, cement beavertails around with me for one second longer than I must. So wish me luck…and I shall see you on the other side.

PS) Each and every one of us has a picture in her covetous mind’s eye of what she believes to be THE WORLD’S PERFECT TITTIES. If you could have ANY titties on earth, which ones would they be? Find your perfect pair and post them in my comments. In these last hours, I wish to be verily smothered by pulchritudinous titties!

PPS) And for those who have asked about what I am planning on doing with my leftover boobies: They are going to make one HIP motherfucking lavalamp — in which my titties shall float on…forever.