I have an acquaintance that is crazy sexy cool. She’s vivacious, outspoken, fun and thinks fast on her feet. She’s a pretty girl with one disarming asset. Tremendous breasts. Purchased tremendous breasts. Breasts so tremendous in fact, that the slim fitted dresses she owned before the augmentation can no longer contain at least 70% of them at any given moment. I live in constant fear that any fast movement will result in a complete demoralization of the work place. I’m sure you get the picture. Lately, she’s been talking about pumping up the volume. On her diminutive frame, any additional size would simply morph her into mammaries in pumps, which begs the question; what is the real cost of inflation?

In the office, here’s a typical scenario. The women get annoyed because she’s prancing around half-naked starving for attention. She believes they’re all jealous, which I don’t think is a valid argument since any girl with $4,000 and a medium-size pain tolerance can get their own pair of oversized chelobes. Most men expect a bimbo when they see her coming, which creates a preconceived notion that must be overcome in any business situation prior to be taken seriously. For the rest of the men and a few daring women, it’s a daily jousting game of titillation. And I don’t care what anyone says, if the melons are falling out of the crate, we’re all going to look. It’s like we see the banana peel, we see the heel about to hit the banana peel, we’re waiting for the big finish.

For my friend herself, she appears to have made a complete and total monetary, physical and emotional investment in her breasts. She wonders why they can’t solve all her problems. Why don’t they bring her money? Fame and fortune? A rich husband? Friends? Happiness? World peace? A cure for cancer? Surely if she makes them bigger, she’s headed for world domination.

The truth of the matter is, if you can’t get your head out of your cleavage, you’re never going to be happy. It’s dark in there. It’s hard to see. There’s barely room to breathe. And besides, isn’t it really someone else’s job to have their head in there anyway?

I’m not one to judge anything anyone wants to do with their body. Well, within reason. If you make your breasts bigger than your head and wonder why men stare at them and don’t take you seriously, then you might as well cut off your head, replace it with another big boob and become a triple threat, because you’re never going to get it. Cher once said,”If I want to put my boobs on my back, I will. It’s my business.” And if the outcome is so many more people wanting to hug her, that’s okay. As long as she doesn’t sit there and wonder, “Why is everyone hugging me?”

So what’s the real cost of inflation? I’m not really sure. But I do know this. If you’re self-worth is contained in two sacks of silicone, you’re only one millimeter in plastic away from leaking out all over the place. And that’s a precarious place to be for anyone.

Every fairy tale ends in it. Wedding vows include the steroid version: ’til death do we part. We are born and raised to believe that finding your “other half” is the ultimate life goal. Even the words “other half” are designed to make us feel incomplete. If I’m not in a relationship, I’m only half a person. What if we never find “happily ever after?” Are we doomed to a half-life?

We enter into relationships full of hope and promise. We get onboard the “Love Train.” Every love song provides the road map. Thanks Lionel, Diana, Mariah and Luther for “Endlesss Love.” No pressure there. Alas, as time goes on, we discover the only thing that is endless is our evolution. Things are going to change. We are going to change. Change is inevitable.

When a relationship starts to fall apart, we wonder where we went wrong. We hang on for far too long. Our parents did it. Their parents did it and damn it, we’re going to do it. We become bitter, angry and hurt. ‘Til death do we part turns into ’til I kill you do we part. No one can handle this much pressure. No one should have to. And guess what? It’s okay.

Relationships have a lifecycle all their own, implanted within your own lifecyle. We fall in love for so many reasons. Emotional dependency, escape, security, companionship, desire to procreate and simple lust to name a few. The list goes on adn on. But where you are in your lifecycle at that point in time is no where near the person you’re going to be as you jorney towards whatever destiny has in store for you. So what are the chances that your chosen one is going to grow in their own lifecycle in the same or a complementary manner to your own?

You may mesh perfectly today. But as time wears on, those little differences become other little differences, become major differrences. It’s not your fault. It’s not their fault. It just is. If you are to survive and grow, you must accept this simple adage. It Just is. While it sounds easy, it’s one of the hardest thing in life to understand. I’ve seen so many beautiful people beat themselves and each other up because as time has moved on, they have changed. The bonds they once shared have evolved into chains that prevent them from progressing on their own personal paths. So as you stand at a crossroads deciding which path to follow, what do you do?

Recently, AOL ran a poll to see how people felt about the possibility of a female president. 43% of the people polled felt we were not ready.

Now, it did not ask if we are ready for a Martian President. Or an Orangutan President. But a female president…as if we were polling some species not yet recognized for its ability to walk upright or better yet, walk and wave at the same time. I mean c’mon. I’ve seen the Miss America pageant. Women have been walking and waving in perfect coordinated fashion for years. And they do it in high heels. And they want world peace. Are you hearing this George?

Now I don’t know about you, but I’d simply prefer a president that doesn’t wave to Stevie Wonder across a crowded room. As a member of the male gender, I find this a bit embarrassing.
There is criticism that a woman wouldn’t be tough enough. That she needs a jolt of testosterone to handle the job. I work with a lot of women. And for one week out of the month, they can send any man cowaring under his desk, shaking in fear. This would be the week to negotiate the tough contracts. And a woman president would only get better with age. I’m sure you’ve heard of menopause. Send an army of menopausal women to North Korea. They would beat Kim Jon Il over the head with his own nuclear weapons.

And lets face it fellas. A good woman can get a man to do anything. And with 94% of the world’s leaders men, I smell world domination. The only thing left to consider is who? Who would be the best candidates? Let me know your thoughts on the subject.

As I enter into Blogdom for the first time, I want to build a forum I’ll call the anti-myspace. In a world of me, me and more me, I need to find a community of people that care about the world and each other beyond ourselves.

I live in a city where a girls breasts are the measure of her worth. Where strippers are idolized. Where thinkers are the minority and true lasting friendships are rare. Can you guess where I’m from?

I want to hear from people that belive as I do, that the majority of people in the world are good and honest. That people don’t want to be at war. That in this big giant sanbox called earth, we can all play together and share our toys. That the overwhelming majority of thinking people understand the governments agendas are not neccessarily our own.

I want to hear from people that understand that we really don’t know much about the miracle of life. That every day, there is more to learn and discover. That we know less than one percent of all there is to know. That our minds need to be open to receive knowledge. That the truest power known to man…is love. That whatever God you do believe in is love. Because, at the end of the day…what the blog do we know anyway?