To my right breast:

I cannot help but notice a certain lack of enthusiasm in your work of late. There are very few things that I request of you: to be perky and to be functional. And I’ve only had one baby, so I’ve not asked you to be functional all that much.

So let us talk about this laziness you’ve been displaying ever since my 30th birthday passed.  You droop a little. Even, I daresay, sag slightly — and put undue stress upon Victoria, who has worked so hard these past fifteen years, keeping you safe, cocooned, and  aloft, very much like Jane in Tarzan’s bower.

Quite frankly, I expected something of this nature from Lefty. He’s always been a bit of a layabout but for those moments when attention and praise are being heaped upon him. But you, Righty, you! Your very name suggests that you will fight to do what is correct and moral at all times. You should be faultless! Irreproachable! Upstanding!

But this is what you have become. I am ashamed to call you my knocker, my dirty pillow, my melon, my boob. And if you do not soon shape up, I may have to replace you.

Yours in disgust,
Meljean