The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs Read Online Free PDF Page A

know what I think it is? All that build-up – like five years of waiting, and then the worrying about the operation, and then all the soreness and the scars, and all the money, I suppose I thought it was going to be a bigger deal. After all that stress, I expected the world to change, like there should be a parade or something, but it’s business as usual. I’ve been back at work for ages, everyone’s pretty much stopped caring that I had it done – even my mum quite likes them now. I thought everything would be more
different
, you know what I mean?
    There’s no doubt that my boobs look better – I honestly cannot count how many hours I’ve stared at them for – but they’re not
perfect
. I’m a bit pissed off because after all that grief, you would want them to be perfect, right? If you look closely, Ashley is still a tiny bit bigger than Mary-Kate and I reckon the nipple is a little higher too – although I’m clearly a bit obsessed with them.
    I don’t know, I guess we’ll see. I will have to wait a year or two, according to Si, but I might get them done again. Perhaps just a little bit bigger.
    I really hope this has been helpful for any of you out there that are thinking about getting your boobs done. Overall I’m really glad I had my surgery. My top tips are: Get a surgeon you really like, find one that’s done ops for the NHS (they’re better), and make sure you’ve got someone around to do everything for you right after the op. They are like a million times better, even if I’m not a hundred per cent, and I’m definitely
happier
. I wanted bigger boobs and that’s what I got.
    Love and hugs
    Becca xxx

A Diamond-Encrusted Bubble-Gum-Flavoured Speckled Glittered Brightly Coloured Erotic Eye-Wateringly Bouncy yet Sensible, Comfortable Hammock (with pockets)
LAURA DOCKRILL
    Mum, let’s pretend we’re bakers.
    It’s 5.30 a.m. and luckily, for us, the cakes have just come out
    hot
    from the oven.
    It’s OK; you lie there, because I KNOW you’re tired,
    And I’ll sit here, on your tummy,
    with all of my five-year-old body weight
    and decorate the cakes. Otherwise referred to as …
    Your boobs.
    Of course I never wanted to
eat
them. I just wanted to
    roll
    them
    and squeeze them.
    And attack them.
    Because I didn’t have
them
.
    And when she ‘reminded’ me that once upon a time, before the plastic joy of McDonald’s,
    that they
fed
me! I DRANK from them, with my
mouth
?
    Well, I was horrified.
    And I never wanted to see them again.
    They were ‘udders’.
    Embarrassing ones. With personalities.
    I hated seeing friends’ mums’ ones even more, accidentally; in a changing room,
    All baked-egg-like and soggy and depressed and wilting,
    Like a flabby rejected exotic plant that nobody read the ‘How To Look After’ manual of.
    When they (the breasts) chased me, and caught me,
got
me, in the kiss chase menace of puberty, I fought, proper.
    I said
    â€˜NO! Don’t give me those’ and took to a bra like a fly to a pond. Drowning, terribly.
    It meant I was growing up
    and I would have to watch whilst my sister
    got tickles and ice cream
    whilst I awaited Santa’s stocking of sanitary towels and M&S vouchers.
    Thanks
Papa Chrimbo
.
    Cheers for that.
    I’m about to explode.
    Like a bomb of snake blood.
    Then suddenly, they become your
thing
almost overnight.
    They are yours.
    Flat-chested girls say,
    â€˜How did you do that?’ about your boobs, and you say
    â€˜Just by being alive and eating loads of stuff.’
    And that’s pretty good and you
    look at slightly chubby blokes and think
    Thank God
I’m not a bloke because they aren’t allowed two
    sockets for extra fat to dress up in a balcony bra
    and you are proud but guilty.
    Dockers’ Knockers.
    Inside I just wanted to be Tinkerbell actually.
    We want ‘tits’ like girls in French