Fresh from my shower, I stand in front of the mirror, complaining to my husband that my breasts are too small.
Instead of automatically telling me it's not so, he
uncharacteristically comes up with a suggestion:
"If you want your breasts to grow, then every day take a piece of toilet paper and rub it between your breasts for a few seconds."
Willing to try anything, I fetch a piece of toilet paper and I stand in front of the mirror, rubbing it between my breasts.
"How long will this take?" I ask.
"They will grow larger over a period of years," he replies.
I stop. "Do you really think rubbing a piece of toilet paper between my breasts every day will make my breasts larger over the years?"
Without missing a beat he says, "Worked for your ass, didn't it?"
He's still alive, and with a great deal of physical therapy, he may even walk again.
Instead of automatically telling me it's not so, he
uncharacteristically comes up with a suggestion:
"If you want your breasts to grow, then every day take a piece of toilet paper and rub it between your breasts for a few seconds."
Willing to try anything, I fetch a piece of toilet paper and I stand in front of the mirror, rubbing it between my breasts.
"How long will this take?" I ask.
"They will grow larger over a period of years," he replies.
I stop. "Do you really think rubbing a piece of toilet paper between my breasts every day will make my breasts larger over the years?"
Without missing a beat he says, "Worked for your ass, didn't it?"
He's still alive, and with a great deal of physical therapy, he may even walk again.
