Once a month I develop a serious loathing for these two little bastards I carry around on the front of my body.
I've lamented them, talked to them sternly, argued with them, all to no avail.
I get all, "I hate you!"
While my boyfriend is more like, "Christmas!"
I've been wanting to just leave them in the dresser drawer - like, yes, just sit in the dark and think about how you've been behaving! And then my boyfriend said that if he could, he'd happily take them off my hands.
"It would be so fantastic! I could just take them to work with me!"
"I wish you could."
"Well, except I wouldn't really get anything done. Because they'd be sitting on my desk and every time I turned around, I'd be like, oooh, boobies!"
"God. One can only imagine."
"Yeah. And then a male colleague would come in my office with a work matter, and then suddenly he'd be like, 'ooh, boobies!' and none of us would get anything done."
I declined to mention that on top of the lack of productivity and bizarre workplace bavior that would engender, it would also mean sharing my breasts with his colleagues. Which, if he thought about it, would horrify him.
I'd might be almost OK with it if that meant I could get rid of them for a bit, though. But you know they'd have a hard time looking me in the eye next time we saw each other.