By Sigge S. Amdal
There's a variety of tits that slip away from most men's conscience, as most men tend to grow weary of illumination and would rather leap into action. But I do love tits, and I appreciate their fulfilling diversity.
There are tits for each and every occasion, tits for various outfits, tits for late afternoon dinner parties, tits for long fur coats worn in the theatre, there are tits for jogging and tits to bring along to the race track if there should be an accident on the opposite side of the track.
There are tits for politics, not covered but slightly undermined by sublimely coloured fabrics. Tits for cafes that can't be forgotten. Tits for one o'clock deadline, these are bouncy ones that aren't shy but don't call for attention either, 'cause they're tits that stress delivery upon demand. There are tits you wouldn't want to meet in the street at night, there are tits that you couldn't meet in the street at night, there are tits that would attack you if you were close by and unaware, there are tits that would kill you if you caught their stare.
Tits flourish around the globe as posted, stamped, bought, sold, viewed, examined, squeezed, fondled, stroked, rubbed, smacked, slapped, spanked, kissed, spit at, despised, cherished, subjected to religious awe, internalized and centralized, globalized, localized, urbanized and genocide, there are tits broadcasted to thousands of homes by television, much like the revolution.
Some tits are uncalled for, others expected. The best are those who explode in splendor and promise, who ignite the volcano of passions and the imagination of the blind man; those are the ones I cherish the most.
As for forms, Plato spoke of them as abstract and perfect, hardly convincing when their representation by induction are imperfect - while modern writers can't agree on a cognitive or emotional approach, since there are doubts whether tits are empirical or at least possible to validly justify.
Nevertheless, they are a manifold to grasp in one lifetime.
There are tits that are bouncy, there are tits that wouldn't move during an earthquake, there are tits that disappoint you, there are tits that say hello. You can find tits that erupt as soon the bra is unhinged, you can find tits that should never have become, and tits that scare the blood out of you despite your near-mortal alcohol consumption.
Tits that make you blush, tits that make you angry, frustrating tits, tits that make you sad. There are tits that only look right from the wrong angle. There's the Tao of tits, Pauly's pancake nipples, the Victorian tit - slightly compressed, lifted - and the naturalistic tits of mothers, with or without Freud's interpretations. There are tits that make you go wild, and tits that make you run like wild. Tits hardening in the summer breeze, tits soiled in mud as well as tits showered in lubricants or otherwise tempting bodily fluids.
There are those tits that catch you unawares, that don't leave you be, and could probably be your end.
Other tits are nurturing tits, comforting tits, tits of self-awareness and tranquility. That must be the Tao of tits, in writing.
Some tits conspire, even though they seem heart-warm and open at first glance. Of course there are tits without political preference, without history, without an inviting interest. There are tits you can never get hold of from a woman's point of view, except for Fortune's help, there are tits you can buy, that never amount to anything, and only look good on paper.
Nipples have their very own special anthropology, not to mention topography, and I have yet to dissect and analyze enough representative samples.
There are illegal tits and senior tits and tits that are classics, that is, timeless. There are tits you speak of, others you keep to yourself, and those you wouldn't dare dream of. There are tits you only mention in passing, and others you can keep talking about all night. And there are those who by some or other convention are forbidden, spawning many a tale by poet and pedophile alike.
Tits can be frivolous, exciting, enticing, enchanting, encouraging. They can be self-absorbed and monastic or modest and impartial to belief. They sometimes carry an air of cool indifference about them, that makes you uncertain of their deepest interest and truthful determination. There are those that make you forget and those who raise a doubt.
Unaccounted for are those that never seem to fit any category, but must be dealt with individually, that is, particularly. And preferably by me.
Some tits resemble others, others do not. There have been tits that could've been mistaken for something else, but I haven't observed any of those up close.
There are intriguing tits, and tits that make you hungry. There are tits that feels like plastic as there are tits made of plastic. There are tits that suffocate and smother, others who excel in their absence. Some are shaped like oranges, other like ski slopes, there are those who just seem to have a life of their own, and others kept under vigilant control. All of these should be considered non-indifferently, nevertheless.
And yet again there are tits that were, tits that will be, as opposed to tits that are, and aren't.
Some tits like to dance, others should never be allowed to. Yet more, there are those who are rarely noticed, and others apprehended as lethal arms. Which is good.
All in all, I cannot choose my favourite, as I am but an apprentice of this art. But I do my very best to study hard, and maybe one day I shall be rewarded with the perfect pair. Naturally, there are those who aren't perfect, but consider the radius and volume and you might find it's because you're seeing them from the wrong perspective.
Diversity is good, also over time, but never forget what you like.
And as for everything else, you might not even know what you like yet.
That's why you have to try.
But that's only me...
I lit my cigarette that had lost its glow.
My cohort in alcohol looked up from his lemonized drink.
"So... You don't have a girl, presently?"
I inhaled and exhaled and shook my head.
"No, not at the moment. Why?"Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.