I bet you’d rather not hear about my underpinnings but today happens to be Bra Awareness Day for me, where things are just a little uncomfortable. This happens whenever I wear the Frankenbra, which consists of two unsettlingly solid cups molded out of god-knows-what: synthetic foam forged in the Fires of Mordor or something. I can’t believe I’m telling you about my bra and going for the Lady Laffs and all that. But really: you can knock on the side of this bra. It thumps like upholstery. It endows me in a way I do not quite like; it makes me feel like the Metropolis robot. The Frankenbra tends to wears me more than the other way around. I don’t know why I bought it.
I wear it only on days when I am running late and can’t find any other clean support contraption. I can always find the Frankenbra because it is impossible to lose it. It’ll be lying on the floor and I’ll stumble over it like it’s a goddamn ottoman. Even in a huge pile of laundry it manages to send one mighty cup up to the surface to survey the landscape. I fear the Frankenbra. And yet I live with it.
Sorry. I promise I won’t complain about this kind of thing ever again.