I once returned home from a painfully boring job at a Day Care Center in Seattle to hear the woman I lived with screaming this into her phone:
‘What do you mean you’re only covering one?!?! What-they aren’t big enough for you?!?! Want me to come down there and slap em on your desk?! If you only cover one, I’m gonna look like the worlds fattest cyclops!!!!!!!!’
I still remember standing in the living room, two cats circling my legs as I watched Veronica thunder back and forth, obscenities raging from her mouth as if she were starring in a Joe Pesci film. She was a rather large character, and as she slammed down the receiver, she barked at me:
‘Well the fucking insurance only wants to pay for one of my tits to be removed-come on, we’re going out for Indian’
Such was the way with Veronica. She was a mentor to me when I was in high school, always encouraging me to live big. I lived with her during the summer I was twenty, and it happened to coincide with her ‘tit-loss’.
During that summer I learned far more about the process of breast-reduction than necessary. She was eventually successful in convincing the idiots at the insurance company that it was unacceptable to cover the costs of merely one boob, but it took many an afternoon of screaming to convey her message. In the end, they took seven pounds-which-if you ask me, is a lot of tit.