Saviabella surprised me yesterday with an unexpected present. She had ordered herself a t-shirt from Fussy and had thought, what the heck, I'll order two! I was thrilled to the gills with her gift, and we flapped our hands in the air and giggled like thirteen-year-old girls.

I have heard wonderful things about the Fussy shirt's transformative power, and so I couldn't wait to run home, put mine on, and photograph the proof (along with appropriate haikus, of course). This may be one of my only personally justifiable chances to put pictures of my boobs on the internet, so I'm taking it.

Beneath the brown shirt,
my bashful self-same puppies
shied behind cotton.

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In Fussy's black tee,
my sweater cushions blossom;
right words are fleshed out.

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I wore it to the pub yesterday, and the words drew people's eyes to my chest like beer does Schmutzies. More than one person blushed, coughed, and started talking about the weather when they realized that they were staring intently at my round, luscious melons.

That's right. I did just refer to my own breasts as round, luscious melons. Didn't you look at them? Just look at them!*

I think I want twenty Fussy t-shirts.

*Both pictures feature the same set of boobs clad in the same brassiere and were taken less than five minutes apart. The only dynamic factor was the change of shirts.

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