Enough About Me ...

I've often pondered the concept of an 18-hour bra. I'm a busy girl, with busy things to do, but I've never stopped in the middle of my day and thought my gawd, if this bra would only last a few more hours, I'd be able to accomplish so much more. I've never said to my girlfriends, "Meet you at the club? OoooOoooooo, bummer … I'd love to, but my bra, you see I had an early start so I only have like another hour, by the time I get there, get parking … I just can't." More importantly, who are these women who sleep six hours, put their bra on and go around all day and most of the night getting shit done. When working through the seventeenth hour, would one be able to tell then end is near? What if you wear it for an eight hour day and decide to catch up on some lost sleep, does it hold that spot and pick up where you left off? Or does the resting rejuvenate it for a new beginning. With such a tough work week, I could see where you might lose track. There you'd be in the middle of an interview that seemed to be going pretty well. Or was going well, that is until the bra gave out. Do we even bother painting the image of when the 18-hour bra times out? If it turns from perky little grapefruits to two cats fighting in a bag, I can see the market. Or is this another market carved out by the man sitting up there on the shelf with douching and Romantic Comedies.

During my lonely, cold walk from my corporate drone desk to the go nowhere treadmill, I pondered the following:

Somewhere in the world it's garbage day today.
All day long we chew and moo. It's what us cows are supposed to do.
It's all moderate to no hill from here.
Campfire cookies sold by prepubescent girls is another form of prostitution only the sugar comes in the form of a cookie.
Do I have VPL?