Dear Breasts,
First off: I see you. I want you to know that. You have tirelessly nourished two demanding infants over countless hours of your existence. They’ve slapped you. They’ve scratched you. They’ve wasted your elixir by popping off at the slightest distraction, just as you were pouring your whole being into the effort. And have they ever taken one moment to say thank you? To say, “O source of my ginormous, thrice-rolled thighs, I appreciate you?” Of course not. They’ve taken you for granted. I can’t imagine what a letdown that must be. (No pun intended).
I hear you when you say you want a raise. I do acknowledge the hours of unexpected overtime you have worked: overnight shifts, sometimes two or three a night. Deeply admirable. I acknowledge your sacrifice, not just of your time, but also what years of hard labor have done to you. You say you are stretched and wasted—not to mention, that you stretch nearly to my waist. I hear you, I really do. No one questions your dedication.
However. I am afraid I must decline your request.
