'it never felt so good, it never felt so right'

Contrary to what this may appear to be at first blush, no, scientists have not discovered the fossilized remains of a prehistoric snake, fangs bared and prepped for attack.

These bastards are my two semi-new bras. Bras that demanded I deprive my children of food and necessities in order to buy them just a few months ago. Sadly, as kick ass as the rack is, I can't entomb it in bras picked up at Target, just tossed in my cart capriciously while shopping the clearance aisles.

I lovingly hand washed you and complimented your smooth and luscious fit when others were around, and this is how you show your gratitude? By performing exploratory surgery on my right breast while I was at work tonight? That machete of a wire boring a hole into me wasn't distracting and painful at all! Way to test my steely resolve for five hours, bra. In the end, it was no match for your own.

When the first bra defected on me a few weeks ago, I chalked it up to the power it was trying to harness. But tonight, when the wire in the second one decided to poke it's gleaming little pointy head out of the lining like some rodent on Groundhog Day and give a hearty "how's it goin'?" to my nipple, I wanted to scream. And I would have if I could trust the customers not to look at me funny.

So I gasped instead, because seriously, that damn wire is sharp. I figured if push ever came to shove, I could've used these bras as catapults to vault my way clear of danger, or used the cups as a floatation device-slash-water containment facility should I have had to drift across the ocean on some special assignment for the government. Instead, I'm ready to go "mano-o-mammo" in a knives out street brawl.

So thanks for confirming my sarcastic love of lingerie, you expensive bras. Thanks for slicing me as a means of lifting and separating.

And thanks for making me have to struggle to find something to reign these things in once again, because I so adore bra shopping.

Bastards.