B is for Breasts and Bunny Rabbits.
I’m sorry, I couldn’t choose just one. Breasts. They are sort of funny things. All shapes and sizes and colors. Small, medium and large. And if one so desires, extra-large and gigunda sizes are also available. We spend all day strapping them in and up and together and then rush home to unbuckle. Freeeeeeeedom! At 25 my breasts are starting not look like what they used to. But on the flip side, I know they are not yet what they could be. Right now there could be a cup size difference, later, after further weight loss, who knows? I will never have perky porn star breasts or be a flat chested goddess who looks divine in any tiny tube top they put on. On the other side, I wouldn’t want to be. I like mine. And though they are not my entire identity as a woman, I’m sure I’d miss them if they went somewhere. We are quite attached to each other.
And on to the bunny rabbits . . . it’s almost easter. Well in three weeks anyway. This means the stores are flooded with candy-colored sticky grass that you can never quite divest yourself of, pastel chocolate balls that resemble deer poop and other assorted candy goodness. It also means it’s time for the bunny rabbit. Did you ever get one of those hollow bunny rabbits made entirely out of chocolate? They were great. I’d always start at the ears because the butt was angled and too hard to bite into. Yes, I had a bunny eating strategy. The eyes were always weird though. You wanted them gone immediately so you didn’t feel like it was watching you devour it and even though they were deemed edible, they were made out of this weird chalky consistency that didn’t really taste of anything specific. You’d usually spend a couple of days devouring the bunny de chocolate because even though it was delicious, eating more than half in one day would generally send you into a food coma. A couple of years ago I was perusing the grocery store and came across the table of sadness known as the after-holiday easter collection. The creepy thing about it was that there was a whole line of chocolate easter bunnies and all of them had no eyes. Like any moment they’d hop out and start saying “Red Rum, Red Rum”. I bought one just because I knew they’d probably get passed over (no pun intended) for their creepy factor and I didn’t want them to feel unloved. As an adult, I still love easter baskets. And I love to give easter baskets. But watch out for the bunny rabbits . . .