I'm an independent female making it on my own in the world today. I destroy obstacles that get in my way. I'm a fighter. According to some people I'm one step away from being a hairy leg hemp wearing tree hugging lesbian. If it wasn't for the fact that I refuse to "Take back the night!", wear birkenstocks and be a sister, I'd be well on my way.
I'm all for women's rights. Don't get me wrong. All I ask for is that I get a fair chance to do what it is I want to do.
But that will never happen.
I will never get a fair chance.
Because I have boobs.
Riding along on my chest are two lumps of fat with the power to make men squirm, whimper, and give me whatever the fuck I want. Things aren't going my way? Wear a v-neck shirt. Can't get backstage at a concert where they won't even let police officers backstage? Make the bouncer think he's gonna get a peek at Spanky and BoomBoom (or Thelma and Louise, or Godzilla and Mothra, whatever you call them).
Now, sometimes the boobage doesn't always work. I've got a rack I can rest my chin on, and still life isn't all fun and games. There is only one thing to do when the Wonderbra fails.
Break out the water works.
I'm an intelligent, strong, modern female who has no qualms about crying to get what I want.
Childish? Probably. Effective? You bet your ass.
I screwed the pooch on a major test (Which would've severely dropped my 3.80 GPA). Wearing a white very low cut v-neck shirt from Banana Republic, I had a small powwow with my professor on the pretense of "seeing what I could do to improve my grade". By the end of the conversation, I was bawling, tears were streaming down my cheeks and beginning to form a little pool into my cleavage that rivaled the size of the one at the YMCA, and I was making short...little se..ntances...between...s...sobs...
The poor man didn't know what to do. He rubbed his forehead. Then his bald head. Offered me a Kleenex, and proceeded to tack on an extra 10% if I would "Just stop crying, Clare!"
Now, stop right there. Before you shoot me an email about how I'm setting back the women's movement, I'm not. I'm simply using a tool at my disposal to my advantage. It's not my fault the people I deal with are naive enough to deal with that sort of nonsense. If I was my professor, I would've slapped the shit out of me. It's their fault for letting me play on those emotions and hormones.
It's what Doctor Macanich calls "mental and verbal judo".

I'm strong. I'm a fighter. I cry to get my way, and I'm proud of it.