Sometimes I slip into this mentality that guys don't pay attention to me. I realize now that it’s absolutely, tragically untrue. I just get attention from all the wrong guys.

It's the drunk guys and the barrel-scrapers, the socially retarded blokes with one lazy eye and a gold tooth, or the guys with the pervert-mustaches and a mullet, or the guys who smell like my wet dog after he burped up a gym sock. And truth: there is something to be said for these guys; they fill a necessary gap in the world's social structure, they keep the cogs of natural selection churning. They are heroes, in a way, devoid as they are of any charm, manners or redeeming qualities, and braving the cruel injustice of today's world with a twinkle in their lazy eye.

But that doesn't give them free license to stare at my chest as if there was a coupon for a free soda on my shirt.

I've gotten used to this, of course. It's been this way ever since I got boobs. Somehow girls with enormous breasts are always taken for a certain type, always lumped in the category of snake tattoos and mini skirts and hairy men who they call "Daddy". So for years these have been the guys jonesing for some Kit Fox lovin', with precious few exceptions.