So I’m walking to and fro on my break at work, trying to track down something to snack on. I finally beat a vending machine into submission with the awesome power of my change scrounging capabilities and I’m walking back to my desk feeling pretty cocky.

There are two wet spots on my chest. I feel them, cold slimy dots on my nipples. This isn’t too unusual these days. Some warning instinct tells me to look down, and I see them — twin wet spots on my shirt the size of quarters.

So now I’m walking back to the desk with my mini bag of chips clutched to my chest so that my wrists can cover my nipples, and I try to make like I’m carrying it like that because I want to, like that’s how the cool kids do it. I twiddle my fingers to make it convincing. One of my co-workers stops me and comments that I’m not wearing my usual all-black ensemble. Laundry day, I blurt and shuffle past. Safely at my desk I whip my sweatshirt on and run the zipper up to my throat.

Goddamnit, boobs. You have betrayed me.