Busty bovines

I have been thinking a lot lately about the preoccupation with the breast. Not so much the male preoccupation with the breast because we all know that's meant to be some wack Freudian thing where they subconsciously wish to return to the womb (or some damp and comfortable nook). Freud's so out anyway and if he weren't i'd be some hysteric suffering from primal repression (maybe). I'd rather not be classified - thanks! The thing that gets to me is the way we (as women) tend to classify ourselves and lately (or forever) these classifications have invariably impressed themselves upon our bodies or our protrusions or our absent protrusions in this hazy Foucauldian self-monitoring phantasm. The reality is boobs go south and when they do let them dangle! Let them hang from rooftops for all i care. But please don't reach middle age and decide to go all plastic fantastic as a way of restoring 'youthful' femininity(or for the young ones as a way of demonstrating you really are a woman?!). Because what I have observed is that the women who do end up 'getting work' turn into these wack Frankenstein/cyborg/trailer park/beast cretins with protuberances that interrupt my clear line of vision when attempting to cross the street. And quite frankly i don't wanna be flat stan-lette so you other gals can stick out for all the world to see. And don't defend yourself with the rhetoric of individualism and autonomy because that's just capitalism speaking through you -you idiotic dunce. Just get a better BRA!