Boobs. Breasts. Titties, even. Since the dawn of humanity, the Universe hath bestowed upon us these nippley, warm flesh bags. And since the dawn of my consciousness, I have craved them.
Attached to me… I’m transgender.
Imagine, if you will, a prepubescent white boy with the largest forehead conceivable. (If it helps, imagine if Megamind and MatPat conceived a lovechild. <— DO NOT LOOK THIS UP!!) This child, warmly labeled by my friends as “Fetus Dana,” desperately wished she could be a real girl. She would venture to the darkest depths of YouTube to find the solution to her ills (which, of course, every young boy experienced). One very real and not at all joking video gave advice on how to stuff a bra; by using a plush animal of the circular red bird from the then popular video game Angry Birds, one could attain the illusion of totally real breasts.
As luck would have it, I had the exact same plushie in my own home! One problem: I only had one. Improvising with another Angry Bird plush (the triangular yellow bird), I stuffed red in my right and yellow in the left, gazing into the sullen body of the mirror in front of me. Polygonal tits, beaks out, tears cascading from my face like the Niagra: the cisgender experience.
But now, ten years later, I have grown. No longer am I a self-conscious, socially-anxious, depressed little fetus. Now, I am a self-conscious, socially-anxious, depressed ADULT with TITTIES. You grew your own boobs? That’s nice. Mine were made with the miracles of science and modern medicine. My ancestors drank horse piss to absorb the nutritious estrogen inside. I have personally dueled with the American healthcare system upon a frozen lake to make them cover the copay for my titty skittles. I forged my chesticles from the blood of a thousand vanquished foes and also some fresh lavender cuz y’know it smells nice.
So, yeah. What I’m trying to say is that I’m better than you. My friends, roommate, and therapist all said that this is an “unhealthy coping mechanism to respond to your insecurities on not being a cis woman and also mommy issues.” But what do they know?? For the first time in my life I can look in a mirror and feel genuinely happy. I don’t see some alien Fetus who really should’ve gotten bangs earlier in life, but rather myself. A woman who is hot but also a complete idiot who thought “nippley” was a real word until a week ago. A woman who dresses like the stock image of a scholarly lesbian half the time, and a 90s Jim Carey impersonator the other half. Was it not the Founding Fathers who scribed that we are endowed with certain inalien- able rights, among them life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Thus, is it truly wrong for me to not live my life to the fullest by transitioning? Is it wrong for me to express the liberty of self-determination by being myself to the fullest extent?
Was it not then their intent to let me pursue my own happiness by grow- ing a fat pair of awoooga honky honkers?? This, my fellow Catamount, is why my boobs are better than yours. By growing out my own breasts, I am upholding the very foundational values that this country rests upon (breasts upon?). By god, if I went to a football game, people would salute my chest in order to salute this dear land of ours. Truly, this is America’s rack.