I am Me, Not My Chesticles.

I’ve wanted to talk about this for a really long time but I felt it was too soon to be thrust upon you. However, we’re 8 weeks in, I think I’m allowed to discuss this.

Disclaimer: this has nothing (okay, maybe a little bit) to do with recent events (yes, point at yourself, I’m referring to you) so don’t think this is one my shadeful, judging lollipops to you. This is just an outcry for help of understanding the immense interest, or more like, the obsession with breasts. If you can’t handle the word ‘breasts’, you shouldn’t be on the internet, let alone this blog, okay?

When God made me, He decided that when I grew older, my breasts would also grow with me. He also decided to make boys completely fascinated with breasts right around the time that I (and a lot of other endowed girls out there) were beginning to accept and deal with their assets. I don’t go around shoving my breasts under everyone’s nose, I don’t confine myself to the wonders of turtle/bottle necks either. I wear what I want but I am decent. I wear tank tops under certain items of clothing, I wear camisoles, I am continuously tugging my tops up to prevent epic disasters. I even invested in a pair of minimiser bras from Marks and Spencer’s recently. I can’t help it if I lean over and you see Paris from inside my shirt. Leaning is a fundamental exertion. Let me live. There are times when I myself am awed by my own cleavage but I keep those moments to myself, mostly. I’m no Kim Kardashian, as you can probably tell.

I refer to my breasts in many varying ways such as boobs (even though I use this the most, it’s one of my most hated words. it’s just so… irritating), jugs (only to my nearest and dearest), breasts and my all-time favourite, chesticles. I call them chesticles because there is power in this word. If a man stood before me right now and we were trying to engage in a somewhat meaningful conversation about the controversy over the reception of Ebola in the diaspora, for example, and my eyes continuously fleeted between his own eyes and his testicles, wouldn’t he be itching to grab me by the chin and tell me through gritted teeth, “Hey, eyes here. Eyes no go there.” Well, that’s exactly how I feel when I attempt to converse with many a member of the opposite sex. My eyes are on my face, right above my nose. They are not dangling from my chest. I don’t know, am I missing something here? Am I unaware of how my own breasts appear? Are my breasts the first to have ever existed? I’m starting to think that if one day, I had a mastectomy, I wouldn’t have nearly half as many boys attempting to speak to me. I really think my breasts are like a beacon for some of these aforementioned boys. It’s sad. I am a human being, you know. My bra size doesn’t determine how much of a person I am. I like to think I’m a good person, I’m intelligent (ish), I’m friendly, I can cook (ish), I like to read, I like sleep, I like buying things on Amazon compulsively, I like listening to music, I like blogging. All these things have no effect or are not affected by my breasts. So what is the problem?

I get it: there’s something arousing about them. There’s something sexual about them. There’s something there that makes the boys go loco. It offsets this burning sensation to mention my breast size, just to make sure I am aware of the power I possess on my chest. Hey, I do it too. I ogle at fellow ladies every now and again, I comment on their breasts. Even my friends do it too. They tell me how mahoosive my chest is. I can deal with people telling me or commenting on my chest size, it’s the very loose equivalent of commenting on how large someone’s eyes/nose/mouth is. It’s just another body part. But, sex is associated with breasts. And because of this, a lot of boys make it their mission to acquire information and visual data on as many heavily endowed girls out there as they can possibly get their hands on, no pun intended. And I’m done with that sh*t. No one should expect something like that from me or any other girl out there who isn’t parading their chesticles like a pay-per-view channel. Things like that equate to vulnerability, intimacy. I’m not just about to throw things like that to anyone. I don’t care how big a deal it is or isn’t to you. Even if I did want to share such moments, it would only be with my lover. My absolute lover. Or my mother when she walks in on me in the shower but you get the idea.

So, to my male readers and even some female readers (yes, I see you), think before you ask for that picture or before you comment on her chesticles in a way that you know will immediately eject her from her comfort zone with you. Think about the effects, short and long-term, on both her and yourself. Do you really want to wreck a friendship/budding romance/whatever because you couldn’t control what’s in that mind of yours or those boxers/briefs/whatever? Think about it. Think long and hard.

Remember ladies, you choose what defines you. If you want to be known for your chesticles, here’s a fist pump in agreement. If you don’t, here’s a fist pump in agreement. Don’t let someone call you prudish or uptight or even outlandish because of what you want for yourself.

Do you, honey boo-boo.

Mini Rant of the Week: Please look after our planet. I’ve watched enough films to know the people who write these things probably know more about the fate of Earth than I do. Recycle, turn your lights off when you’re not in the room, turn the switches on your plugs off, don’t throw food away if you can’t finish it. Save it for later or give it to someone who will happily eat it for you. Walk, ride a bike, take public transport more often. Interstellar (the movie) not only confused the hell out of my mind but it’s scared me sh*tless as well. I don’t know about you but I don’t want to meet an untimely death and I would like my children and at least my children’s children to live in a fairly decent world. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for the generations to come. And if you really couldn’t give 2 sh*ts about humans in general, do it for the polar bears because who doesn’t love a polar bear?

Song of the Week: Miss Amor – Azealia Banks (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6SgqYMl5R8)

Quote of the Week: “My feelings don’t disappear but I’ve learnt, with age, to use them for the greater good.” – Unknown.

Georgina x

Do You Even Blog, Bro?

I was watching a vlog in the presence of someone who lives under a rock last week and this was the conversation that sparked up:

“What are you watching?”

“A vlog.”

“A what? A v-log?”

“It’s a video blog. Wow.”

“I don’t even understand how people blog let alone vlog or whatever you call it.”

“I blog.”

“Right.”

But that last comment wasn’t made with a straight face, it was made with the dirtiest side eye I have ever been on the receiving end of. It felt like a big stomp on my blogger’s glow. I’ve gotten this response a lot of times before. There’s always that semi-gasp and hand on chest/cheek/any other appropriate body part accompanied by “YOU BLOG? WHAT DO YOU BLOG ABOUT?” I mean, damn, is it because I don’t emit blogger pheromones? I’m guessing a lot of bloggers get this frequently. I’m also guessing this is why a lot of bloggers don’t openly say they are actually bloggers. People just don’t expect you to be a blogger. You yourself don’t feel the need to wear your blogger crown so proudly. There has to be some uniform or code of blogging conduct that I’m not aware of because I just don’t get it. I mean, what is a blogger supposed to look like? Is that even a politically correct statement? Will I ever stop asking so many rhetorical questions? The list goes on…

Despite how much I am against stereotyping people into specific archetypes based on what they do or how they appear (exhale), I do it all the time. I am such a hypocrite, I’m sure you are aware of this by now but hey, someone’s got to not practice what they preach. So, if not me, who else?

I am an epic self-proclaimed judger. Let that sink in. Whether I’ve known you for 2 seconds or 2 years, I am judging you on every little thing you do. I do it unconsciously. I do it anywhere, anytime. You name it, I’m judging. I know, “Only God can judge” but I seriously cannot help it. It is a genetic disorder found on my 22^nd chromosome called judgetitis.

If I see that a person likes posting pictures of their God-given assets – also known as thirst traps  –  and they’ve got a lot of followers on social media platforms and they don’t have any meaningful reason to have such a large following, I’m thinking they’re a hoe, straight up. I don’t care if they are male or female (or even both, or even neither), no one is exempt from my watchful, judging gaze. Seconds later, I may come to the conclusion that they’re actually not a hoe but that is my automatic instinct. If I see someone on a train, frantically but delicately rolling out a cigarette, I’m thinking they’re an addict of some sorts. If I see someone with an eccentric fashion sense, nose piercing and considerably intriguing hairstyle, I’m assuming they are some sort of blogger or creative entity. If someone cannot tell the difference between their, there and they’re, I’m assuming there’s a problem. But, you get the idea.

If anyone saw me, I don’t even think I’d make a slight impact on their peripheral vision let alone their instinct to judge or their she must be a blogger impulse. “I don’t look like a blogger, I don’t behave like a blogger.” I’m half expected to have a hoop halfway through my nose, a bush full of natural hair and be constantly decked out in something made by a high street brand in conjunction with a high end fashion designer (no shade to the Alexander Wang x H&M collaboration. I just wouldn’t want to walk around with the word “Wang” emblazoned on my ass, you feel me?)

Well, I’ve come to say f*ck that. F*ck the boundaries and the so-called expectations of what many people in your certain skillset are doing. Come to conclusions on anyone and anything you see, assume as you wish, throw your shadeful judges out of your judging basket like you’re giving out free lollipops but don’t let that initial opinionated thought of yours indicate how you treat others (note to self) or how you perceive anything they do. Don’t care if anyone’s initial perception of you has any true indication of who you really are. Do you, honey boo-boo.

P.S. The picture doesn’t have anything to do with the post, I just wanted to show off my new glasses. I apologise for the lack of creative integrity. It was the best I could do at the time. I tried taking a pretty decent selfie today but I had so many layers on, headphones, the weather wasn’t attractive so it just didn’t happen. K, bye x

Mini Rant of the Week: I cannot stand people who are rude to customer assistants. No one is entitled to be an asshole just because they are paying for a service. Yes, there can be some employees who seriously deserve a backhand slap but if they are genuinely just doing their job and trying to help you out, why would anyone repay that with utter rudeness? Carry your bad mood and your foul mouth and bang it out against a brick wall or something. That store assistant’s job description doesn’t say “Put up with some grumpy goat’s bad attitude”. They are not paid to cope with your crap. Shout out to all the trainees and floor workers of every McDonald’s, KFC, 99p Store and every other store out there who are faced with abuse on a daily basis. You’re not paid enough. You guys are the real MVPs.

Quote of the Week: “We might not change the world but we’re gonna manipulate it, I hope you’re participating.” – Ab-Soul

Song(s) of the Week: If you follow me on Twitter, I think you would have noticed my incessant tweeting about Broke With Expensive Taste, Azealia Banks’ debut album. It is audio crack cocaine. I have a rather different taste in music, let’s just say, so this won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. But try something new. Listen to the previews on iTunes here – https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/broke-with-expensive-taste/id935819478
You can thank me later.

Also, this remix is life-enhancing and I don’t even like remixes. Make sure you either listen to it with good headphones or very loudly, you really need to hear this. You just have to: Bill$ Bill$ Bill$ (ARVFZ Remix) – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71mqTDfeJQg

Georgina x