It's been two weeks since I went to the endocrinologist and received that series of medically necessary, fully insured, entirely non-cosmetic hormone injections. The Goode Doctor had warned me that my new breasts would feel hard, tight, and immobile for a brief period. And they did. Not that I gave a fuck. In fact, I always secretly desired a plasticine Barbie*-esque tit-shelf. I could arrange curios and souvenirs on my cleavage! For a few enjoyable days, they were literally knockers.
Obligatory tangent: When I worked at the peep show, my in-house nickname was Barbie. Mainly because I have a weird empty space between my thighs (an anatomical feature known as the "Barbie Box"-- TM Sassy magazine.) I'm not skinny, but my pelvis is like four feet wide, so I have a permanent Barbie Box. I bet I'm a good fisting candidate. I can never get my own fist all the way in, but I suspect that's more mental than anything.
Anyway, something magical happened today, re: My Rock-Hard Teats. I was running up the stairs, and they bounced. At first I thought I was imagining things, but then I tried it again. Yup, confirmed Chrissy Snow action. And here's the weirdest part: from the inside, the bouncing feels almost as if some kind of fluid is being displaced. Very queer, indeed. It's as if my breasts have been implanted with liquid orbs, if you can imagine something that fantastically bizarre.
I'm wearing a slutty top today (surprise!) and they look YOOJ. They're "fluffing," as predicted, and the volume is starting to expand horizontally. I know, boring.
Let's see, what else? I finally met John Malkovich*. But it was Planned Malkovich, not Surprise Malkovich, so I was able to make mature decisions, conversationally speaking. Come to think of it, they should have Planned Malkovich clinics on college campuses. We all need to stay informed.
I did however, engage in Unplanned Duchovny that same week (it was a sweaty, thrilling postscript to Planned Tea Leoni.) The only way to prevent accidents after such an encounter is to take a meeting with Plan B the following morning. HI-YO!
One more thing: This entertaining, Apatow-generated parody has nothing to do with Juno, though if the idea of Michael Cera impregnating someone pleases you, it is very likely that you will enjoy our film as well.
*He was wearing seersucker pants.