I believe in miracles

Dear Diary:

Though I realize I am not flatchested, I've never thought of myself as a busty girl. The way I saw it, Squirl got the boobs in the family, and I got the filthy mouth.

For the longest time, I've been guessing at my size, and wearing a 38 C. Well, I was recently informed by Jess that my bras are too small, as my nipples are always trying to jump overboard, even in the Vickie's Secret pushups for which I shelled out $45 (that's $22.50 per boob).

Today, I had a visit from the Bra Fairy. She came into my room with about a half dozen of her bras for me, D cup bras. D cup, people. D as in delightful debauchery. I was sure they would be too massive on my breasteses, which are nothing in comparison to her magnificent bazongas. Mine are just middle-aged funbags, where hers are the boobs of legend, the kind of cha cha bingos for which men gladly go off to war, the tits that launched a thousand ships. I would surely be swimming in these enormous boulder holders, would certainly have space for rent, would definitely have room to smuggle kittens next to my puppies in those things.

They fit me. They fit me well. Do you know what this means, good and purehearted people of the Internet as a Whole? Let me whisper it as modestly as I'm able...

I'M A FUCKIN' D CUP! MY TITS ARE OFFICIALLY ENORMOUS! WOOHOOOOOO!

I would jump up and down and do cartwheels from the excitement of it all, but I certainly don't want to give myself a black eye. Oh, yes - I will be impossible to live with for a while now. At least, until I start exercising in earnest. Then, I fear, I will not only shed the inches I need to lose around my waist, but I will also forsake my precious D cups that I only now realized I possessed.

Or maybe I'll just eat some more cake and ice cream, and then be distracted by my own breasts.