“Explanations were unnecessary. Those fake tits would do the talking for her.”
Camden Camden couldn’t stop staring at her new C-cup breasts. The breasts were an early Christmas present from helicopter parents who worried that Camden would suicide herself if her self-image didn’t improve.
“Don’t I look amazing?” she asked her friend Emily Twiggs.
Emily Twiggs, who was much thicker than Camden and thus already in possession of large breasts, racked her brain for an appropriately enthusiastic-sounding response. “Yes, they’re so natural,” she said.
The breasts weren’t the least bit natural in appearance, though. They were two enormous globes that had sprung sui generis from Camden’s disgustingly narrow and concave chest. “They’re everything I’ve ever wanted,” Camden said, cupping the breasts with her skeletal fingers and pushing them even higher.
Although Emily lacked her friend’s socially-sanctioned “perfect” appearance—whatever that meant—she thought herself possessed of far greater ambitions. She wanted a husband, children, IKEA shelving, a McMansion financed with an interest-only mortgage, and all of the other accoutrements of superficial maturity that were disdained and sometimes even anathematized by self-absorbed souls like Camden. “I’m glad you’re happy, Cammy,” she said.
Camden Camden’s gaze remained fixed on the décolletage of her v-neck top. “I can’t believe it’s really happening to me, Em. But what should I tell people? Should I say it’s because of a growth spurt? Vitamins? The pill?”
Emily thought that such explanations were unnecessary. Those breasts would do the talking for her. Jutting out at everyone Camden Camden met, they would announce that she was an insecure person, a sad person, a tragic person. “You just say what you feel is right,” she said.