I have a broken boob.
It is, as it should be, the chronically defective one: smaller, prone to blockage and a little off-kilter. And, now, it leaks. Just for fun. Or, as my stylist likes to say: just for shits and giggles.
Anything sets it off. A shower, a purse strap, leaning over to tie my shoes up. Anything. Regardless of whether or not the Magpie is around. It’s getting annoying.
I think I must have blown a gasket, but I highly doubt that there is any boob gasket repair shop out there taking appointments [hello, Canadian Tire?]. It’s certainly not at my local family doctor’s office anyway. ‘scuse me, there seems to be milk coming out of my boob. Like that’s a bad thing.
And the internet? I’m a little scared to google broken boob.
hm. Not nearly as scary as one would think. But still not helpful.
So, I suspect that I’ll have to resort to my standard fix over the years – you know, for curing the mismatched, off kilter of the pair back in high school when those things mattered oh-so much. I’m going to have to stuff my bra.
And there’s probably still no where to send the bill for the supplies.