From the pages of Bitch ¥ Volume 3, Number 3 (3128 16th Street, Box 143, San Francisco, CA 94103; $3.25)
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I didn’t start out in the world a hard-ass, I swear. I was the nice girl, Little Mary Sunshine. But you know what finally pushed me over the edge? I’ll sum it up for you in one word: breasts. More specifically, my breasts. I am a woman with large breasts. I am sick to death of the prejudice that comes with the set. How many times does this happen to you? You’re wearing what is, to you, the perfect example of the classic outfit–tailored, professional, powerful. Then you leave the comfort of your home, and some caveman on the street uses all his reserves of brain power to sling some witty comment at you, like, “Hey! I like your big tits!” Well, gee. Thanks! I mean, what the hell am I supposed to say to that?
Another thing that grows old real fast is the open-mouthed gawk at my chest when I meet someone for the first time. Oh sure, it’s usually men, but it has happened with a few women as well–but whereas the men will follow this stare with a cliched smirk, a woman will frown and cluck her tongue silently, in that “you should be ashamed of yourself” way. I should be ashamed of my body, uh-huh. And I was–for a long, long time.
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