I admit...there's a part of me that wishes the damned Mayans were right about 12/21. Just goes to show you--you can't trust a Mayan. They're sneaky little bastards. Although, I do very much appreciate Chichen Itza. So, thanks for that one, Mayans. However, your 'end of life apocolypse' ideas are way off.
Today is BOOBMAGEDDON. And it will happen. Unlike the sneaky Mayans, I can be trusted. It's 4:35am, and I am feeling confident and ready to go. I took the boobs out for one last go round yesterday. We went to the gym and Kohl's. They were happy to be at Kohl's. They told me. I looked down my shirt and whispered, "Here we are, girls!" and they perked up. Then I came home and I toasted them with 1/2 a bottle of Chardonnay. These boobs have been good to me, so I wanted to treat them right on their last day here.
At 9 am this morning (central), I invite all my friends to sing an acappella version of "Memories" from Cats. I find that fitting. Or "My Humps, My Humps, My Lovely Lady Lumps" from Black Eyed Peas. That, too, is apropos. If you choose to dance while you sing, that would be great, too.
My bag is packed and I'm off to take a shower with some gross-smelling soap. I guess they want you to smell like the hospital BEFORE you get there. So to you, my friends, I bid you adieu. I'm off to get rid of these killers on my chest and begin my life with FOOBIES.
WOO HOO!! See you guys on the flip side.