From the bottom of my bosoms..

:: 20/11/06 ::

Under normal circumstances, today would call for tinkling of champagne glasses (or bottles, if you’ll please) but multiple events further marred the beginning of my seemingly bleak holiday. Bah. Self-pitying must have gotten into me. Must be the company I mix with, KI er.. KIKI, it’s all your fault. But I digress. Now that I’m approaching my early twenties, ‘akil baligh’ (if thats even possible) seems to have decrease exponentially. Not good.

Whats up with a 19-going-on-20-year old young lady and puberty? You can lower those raised eyebrows now. Rewinding back to my primary school days, the only cup I’m obsessed with, not World Cup, not Thomas Cup, but my cup. =D Pinning the blame of my obsession on society (or several gits in it) would be purely irresponsible, since I dislike pointing (middle) fingers at others. I’ve been called ‘airport’, threw it right at my face, that one. Whats ‘airport’ I hear you query? It was a literal graphical representation of one’s chest. The airport landing strip is officially flat, innit? It takes little to ruin my day then, and I’m often found pondering and wishing for bigger, better, nastier char siew paoz. However, you don’t often encounter gargantuan char siew paoz amongst primary school girls. Ahh. Solace..

Fast forward to high school. Gone were the days when I would look, no, stare with pure unadulterated envy at well-endowed counterparts of mine. And I’d say, P.E time was a perfect time where you could observe and discover a multitude of sizes and how these char siew paoz (or big paoz) bounce vigorously in correlation with size. And boy, do size matter. A glance around will reveal testosterone-fueled boys with grinning and knowing looks, nudging each other with elbows gleefully. I know what you did last summer… But it’s perfectly normal for them to gape, of course. Can’t say the same for me though, one of my favourite past-times. Perv? Naw. Did you gawk at them too? Sure you did. =p At that time, I was afraid to catch a glimpse of myself nude in the mirror, and whenever I did, I looked away because I wasn’t proud of what I saw. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Chagrined. You name it. I guess the crux of this issue was attributable to me comparing between what I have and what I wished so painfully to have.

Reverting back to the present, I still do, occasionally get the ‘flat chested’ remark but it doesn’t bother me as much as before. (Sum degil devils would gleefully provoke me using this later, I’m sure) I even had a friend who fully utilized a handwrite feature to beautifully illustrate my flat chestedness. =p Yes, I admit I still fantasize my mini paoz would one day be filled out, complimented with a bigger rump and I would toy with the tantalizing idea of creams and surgeries but these remain wistful thinking of mine. After all, someone dear once said: "If a someone loves you for your boobs, you’re not being loved." Ain’t it a nice way to soothe my bruised ego? =p

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