There’s a freckle at the top of my right breast. For a long time I referred to it as The Freckle of Good Taste — my shirts would never be low-cut enough to show it.
Yeahhh… Fuck that. Look at my freckle and fear me.
My friends are a good influence, plus I’m old and tired of giving a fuck. My breasts won’t be this lovely forever, I might as well revel.
(I’m all bluster until the creepy dude at work checks out my rack. But even then — he’d be leering at me if I wore a turtleneck. And I can’t with turtlenecks, man. So sayeth the Hedberg: “Wearing a turtleneck is like being strangled by a really weak guy, all day.”)
I’ll still consult The Freckle for family gatherings, and any time I’m forced to be in a place of worship. God is aware of what my breasts look like, He doesn’t need to see them. (By the way, God is totally proud of my chest, even though pride is a sin. They’re THAT good. Some of His best work.)