Day 1. How it all started: boobs.

As a budding writer, I get lots of, eh, helpful advice from my friends and neighbors. A good Samaritan has recently suggested to my girlfriend that I take a picture each day and write a paragraph about it. Like a personal picture I can relate to. Like it's gonna encourage my shy writing creativity and discipline it at the same time. My supportive sergeant of a girlfriend happily endorsed the idea and told me to use the blog to maintain my writing progress.

As she was telling me all these important things, my attention kept wandering towards stuff that matters. Unfortunately, my eyes gave me away (next time I'll wear sunglasses, I swear). Yvonne pulled her blouse up to hide her not insignificant cleavage.

Y (annoyed). Why don't you concentrate on things that matter?
Me (sincere). Well, yeah, that's what I am doing.
Y (more annoyed). You are such a jerk! I mean writing.
Me (even more sincere, like for real). That's what I am doing. You told me to take a picture that I can connect to, right? There are few things in the world that I connect to as well as this!
Y (annoyed but smiling somewhat). Fine, fine whatever, go ahead.

Why does a serious cleavage have such an existential significance?
If only for a short period of time, but still, the real issues like problems at work, injured elbow, impending parents' visit, impending real estate decisions and all the other mature sensible important stuff just disappear, driven way by two 5lbs sacks of fatty tissue partially supported by a loose T shirt. I still don't know the answer.
Do you?