Busting It

I have a black blouse with a neckline cut a good bit lower than a lot of my other shirts. I’ll often wear a t-shirt to go under this blouse. This morning, I didn’t have anything else to wear. I saw this shirt, wondered what it would look like if I wore nothing under it. So I put it on, and I stood in front of the mirror. It’s still quite modest, but it shows more skin than I am used to. I looked down at my chest, and while nothing really showed, I think what I did see – the slightest hint of womanly curves – made me get a crush on myself. Oh, May, you’re kind of a hottie. Cutiehead. Hey, May, what are you doing tonight? May, would you write me a poem about the way I hypnotize you, er, you hypnotize me?

It’s not like I’m spilling out of my shirt, and it’s not like every guy who passed by ogled my ventral thorax. And it’s not like I could actually tuck in my chin to get a good look at myself, because my neck still hurts. If I stretched my neck to look, I’d end up injuring it more, because nothing’s really there.

The end.