My Titties.

Trudy. Photo courtesy of Gio Parkaia aka "MDNA"

My biggest insecurity in life, besides the size of my penis, or my height, or balding, or how much shit I talk behind my friends' backs, or my ACT score, is my man-cans. My chesticles. My titties. Somewhere in this world, there is a picture of me with my shirt off at a water park, probably 12 years old, with a set of knockers that would make the cover of the SI swimsuit edition. What was I supposed to do? I was eating 3-5 packages of Ritz mini cheese crackers, french fries, nachos, and pizza every single day for lunch. But I was also 12 years old and didn't know what was best for me. I think about that picture every single day.

Fast forward 17 years, and here I am. I'm not overweight, I'm not underweight, but I have titties. I admit it. A few years ago, it would have been unthinkable of me to even acknowledge them. Not because I didn't know I had them, I've always known, but because I didn't want to draw attention to them. It's not like I walk down the street and guys stare at my cleavage before they even acknowledge I'm a human. That's what we do to women. But when I used to substitute teach, I remember walking into a 6th grade classroom, introducing myself as Mr. C, and hearing a girl in the back whisper to her friend, "Oh, he got titties."

Over the years I've learned how to hide them, somewhat. I say "somewhat" because, well, you ever see a woman with really gigantic boobs that doesn't really like them? She wears baggy black blouses (alliteration), walks with a curved back, never shows cleavage, and has a whole game plan to make sure they go unnoticed. But it never works. Everyone knows they're there, and everyone knows that even the best attempts won't tame those monsters. 

I never wear white t-shirts. White t-shirts show the outlines of titties perfectly. Stay away. I envy guys that are confident to walk around with polo shirts that barely fit. By the way, polo shirts, are a tittyman's (a tittyman is a man who has titties, not a man that likes titties, a man that likes titties, is just a man) biggest nightmare. If you have titties and wear a polo shirt, you might as well walk around with your shirt off and a big neon sign that reads, "Check out the knockers on me, even though I'm male and not supposed to have them!" Instead, I wear big baggy tees with distracting graphics. I mean, if I'm walking into the wind, you can still see the outline of my titties perfectly. But I try to avoid the wind. I walk close to buildings, I draft behind really fat people, and I'm constantly throwing grass in the air like a golfer to see which way the wind is blowing. I'm always prepared. In the colder months I'm sure to wear a double pocket button down. Not because I have enough things to fill two chest pockets, I don't even know what chest pockets are for, but because I have 2 titties, and need a pocket to cover each one.

The problem with having titties from such a young age is that there is no one to look up to. Tittymen don't have support groups. There are celebrity tittymen like A-Rod and Simon Cowell but what's to learn from them? They're assholes. So we have to go around walking with arched backs and one too many pockets on our chest.

And of what use are they? Can I go through a drive-through and get a couple extra chicken nuggets by pulling down the neck of my shirt and revealing succulent cleavage? Can I titty my way out of a speeding ticket? Is it a good thing to acquire more beads than all the women at Mardi Gras? Can you turn those in for some therapy sessions with a good psychoanalyst? They're useless. The titties, not the psychoanalysts.

And this is why I can't enjoy the beach. Besides all the other fatasses, women and men, making me sick to my stomach because their bodies barely look human, I'm afraid I'll scare children. I was in the south of France a few weeks ago and dreaded taking my shirt off in public for weeks before I got there. I could picture it, my pale titties out, kids running to their moms, grown men crying for their moms. All because of my titties. Lives ruined. An optimist would say, "Well maybe those kids will be motivated to not grow up and have titties, maybe they'll reach higher, achieve more, dream bigger, with no titties." But I'm not an optimist. There is a humanitarian disaster going on in the south of France right now. A titty can never be unseen. 

I'm only sharing this with you because I feel like you deserve to know. I can't lie to myself anymore. I know you know about the titties. But I want you to know that I know you know. And I want to tell you that for those of you who still love me, like me, or simply tolerate me, that I appreciate it. I love you. 

"Oh, he got titties." Yep, I sure do, sorry.

Pug!

Titties.

Eyelids. Gross.

I came home today motivated to sit down and write something really funny and clever. I couldn't come up with anything. So instead I looked at pictures I've taken of myself when my eczema looked terrible. This is from 2 weeks ago when I was in France. I was on my way to Aix-en-Provence to visit my friend Kim who I haven't seen in 8 years. Look at my eyelids, don't they look they might peel off?

Today some Scandinavian girl asked me where Broome street was. I told her, but her and her friend didn't believe me. She had really, really, really, really big boobs. They were cool. The boobs, not the girls. Well, they might have been cool too but we didn't really talk about anything other than directions.

I've noticed that I like to keep in touch with anyone that doesn't take themselves too seriously. Last year I approached a girl on the train and asked her for her phone number. Obviously, I was shitfaced. Is shitfaced hyphenated? Shit-faced. So yeah, I asked her for her phone number and she actually gave it to me. She was Argentinian and so was her friend. I never hung out with either of them but we chat through Facebook sometimes. Should I not be doing that? When you hate as many people, and types of people, as I do, you tend to try to hang on to the people that aren't fuckfaces. Is fuck-faces hyphenated? They were cool. The girls, not their boobs. Actually, their boobs are probably pretty cool too.

My apartment is a total mess. I think it might be a metaphor for my life. It's perfectly OK, it could be amazing, but I'll never get around to cleaning it up and putting any effort into it.

But lord knows I'll sit back and say I will, tomorrow.