
I need help.
For too long I've endangered my good name, made an idiot of myself and generally debased my own character on a daily basis.
Because of breasts.
No matter how many breasts I might see or how many I'm lucky enough to touch, the second they're gone, I forget what they looked like, felt like, and I become inexplicably, dark-magically obsessed with them again. It's like I have sensory amnesia. Oh, look at
that woman's wonderful breasts! I wonder what
they look like?
Because, really, they aren't impressionist art. They all have the same basic components, yet as far as I'm concerned, each pair is a set of snowflakes, their likeness never before seen and never to be seen again.
Like old family secrets regarding Lebanese back accounts and tax fraud, breasts have haunted me. In so many of my decisions -- what train car to sit in, which tax agent at Jackson Hewitt to use, whom I date -- breasts have been, ridiculously, the deciding factor.
Every time I step outside my front door, I'm subconsciously indexing all the important things I need to be aware of. Cars, buses, cabs, anything that moves and could break my spine? Check. Where I'm going, how to get there, and what time it is? Check. Is that dog poop on the sidewalk? Yes. But the remaining percentage of my brain? It's focusing on breasts. If it's between catching a train and taking an extra 10 seconds to stare at the top half of some woman digging in her purse for her cell phone, I'm missing the train.
It has to end. I must become Spartacus to Breasts' Rome. Here is my plan.