Nipple Talk

I've been thinking a lot about nipples.  Not only because I was feverishly repeating the "nipple chunk" (as I like to call it) in my standup set over and over trying to memorize it last week, but also because I have two attached to the front of me.  They are a fascinating subject to be sure.  Thus, the following is a compilation of all of my "nipple thoughts" for the week, as a sort of companion piece to the video of my standup I posted last week.  I do hope you enjoy, and maybe read it with your nipples, and hopefully the three of you can commiserate and get a good laugh.

When you get right down to it, nipples are basically the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae known as your boob.  When you're young, they're perfectly perched atop like a happy little decoration.  As you age, they sort of slide down the side like they've been left out in the sun.

Areolas are alive, ever-changing creatures.  As you grow in life, so do they.  Exponentially.  With each child you have, they will start claiming more territory on your overall boob.  You may start out with a 90/10 boob to nipple ration, but I promise that's not how you'll end up. You've been warned, young ladies. 
 
If my body were an army, my nipples would be the recon guys because they go in first during every mission.  Only problem is, they're terrible communicators. They have neither mouths nor hands, so even if they sense danger my body has to wait until the eyes reach the situation to find out about it.  By then it could be too late.  I'm thinking about trying to train them to communicate through a series of tingles.  That way, if the sh*t's going down, I can quickly back out of the room before I get into an awkward encounter.  Yes, my life is such that the only "sh*t" that goes down is an awkward encounter.

 At one time in my life, my nipples sat at the front of my body proudly, like the prow on a ship, pointing my way through life and letting me know when it was cold.  Now they're just sorta sad.  Like little arrows that can only point at my feet.

I've come to think of my areolas sort of like the rings inside a tree... Just as the rings of a tree store its entire history, so do my boob halos store mine. The older I get, the more of my rich history is played out in the seemingly never-ending expansion of my nipples.  Each year, I get to look in the mirror, and ask myself that age-old question, "What the hell??? Are they getting bigger???" and each year, the horrid, resounding answer is "Yes, yes they are."

Well, my wonderful friends/readers, that is all for this week.  And may the areolas of your life never be described as "pepperonis."