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Alright, Establishment. I am ON TO YOU. I see how you're totally trying to trip me up, here.
See, I've been studiously doing my best to girly myself up a little. It's a process. For me said process mostly involves inching slowly away from "I am drowning in this t-shirt but it has a logo from my faaaaav scifi show so you can suck it" to "actually, I can buy that shirt in a slightly more body-hugging style, so it's a win all around." Baby steps, like I said. And I've been slowly adding to my wardrobe those sorts of shirts that show off the girls a little. You know, those one kind. I'm sure there's a term for it. There's a term for everything.
ANYWAY, so today I have to meet with a prospective client and so I figure I should dress it up a little. I bust out the push-up bra and a little cut-out-neck sort of number from Old Navy. It's hot, trust me. And it totally turned out to be a good decision because the prospective client was cute and I got to imagine that he was checking me out. (He wasn't. He was too busy fending off my boss' sales spiel. He occasionally looked like he wished he could just go all "talk to the hand" and run away.)
This story has a point though, really. So I'm in my co-worker's car and I'm heading back to the office, and something tickles mah boob. Not wanting to be too obvious about fondling myself in the company of colleagues, and figuring it was just a bit of hair (my hair is not content to merely stay on my head), I just sort of subtly brushed at it. Problem solved. Until a moment later when it started tickling again and I was forced to say to my (thankfully female) colleague, "Excuse me, but I need to dig in my bra now," and I looked down and...
You know where this is going, don't you? I'll bet you've been there. I never realized before that my plain old t-shirts were a literal defense mechanism. I mean, I knew they were a defense mechanism in the sense that they helped me shield myself and my fragile ego, but I didn't realize they were also protecting me from spiders in my cleavage.
SPIDERS. IN MY CLEAVAGE. WITH BIG LONG LEGS AND SCUTTLING AND THE EYES! THE EEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYEEEESSSSSSS!
Why yes, I am traumatized. COMPLETELY. I love you, girls. I wasn't trying to get you bitten by spiders. I hope you're okay. And hey, nature? Fuck you, man. Keep your fucking spiders to yourself.
See, I've been studiously doing my best to girly myself up a little. It's a process. For me said process mostly involves inching slowly away from "I am drowning in this t-shirt but it has a logo from my faaaaav scifi show so you can suck it" to "actually, I can buy that shirt in a slightly more body-hugging style, so it's a win all around." Baby steps, like I said. And I've been slowly adding to my wardrobe those sorts of shirts that show off the girls a little. You know, those one kind. I'm sure there's a term for it. There's a term for everything.
ANYWAY, so today I have to meet with a prospective client and so I figure I should dress it up a little. I bust out the push-up bra and a little cut-out-neck sort of number from Old Navy. It's hot, trust me. And it totally turned out to be a good decision because the prospective client was cute and I got to imagine that he was checking me out. (He wasn't. He was too busy fending off my boss' sales spiel. He occasionally looked like he wished he could just go all "talk to the hand" and run away.)
This story has a point though, really. So I'm in my co-worker's car and I'm heading back to the office, and something tickles mah boob. Not wanting to be too obvious about fondling myself in the company of colleagues, and figuring it was just a bit of hair (my hair is not content to merely stay on my head), I just sort of subtly brushed at it. Problem solved. Until a moment later when it started tickling again and I was forced to say to my (thankfully female) colleague, "Excuse me, but I need to dig in my bra now," and I looked down and...
You know where this is going, don't you? I'll bet you've been there. I never realized before that my plain old t-shirts were a literal defense mechanism. I mean, I knew they were a defense mechanism in the sense that they helped me shield myself and my fragile ego, but I didn't realize they were also protecting me from spiders in my cleavage.
SPIDERS. IN MY CLEAVAGE. WITH BIG LONG LEGS AND SCUTTLING AND THE EYES! THE EEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYEEEESSSSSSS!
Why yes, I am traumatized. COMPLETELY. I love you, girls. I wasn't trying to get you bitten by spiders. I hope you're okay. And hey, nature? Fuck you, man. Keep your fucking spiders to yourself.