I need a Boob Job

My Head I suppose, after my boobs, is my least favourite part of my body. The incessant thinking, worrying, re-thinking and analysing does not leave room for anything important; like exam revision, or coursework or knowing exactly which of my seven pairs of jeans will be perfect for my third date with John. I’m Katie. I’m fifteen, (nearly sixteen) and I want a boob job. Desperately. Nothing has been so important to me and I am completely, utterly determined to get one. I mean, I don’t have any money and my parents would kill me, but right now they’re too busy trying to kill each other with hateful words so I might just slip unnoticed through the net of parental overlording. I’ve always been smart, or so people tell me. I read well, I’m articulate and I love school. Or should say loved. Now its just a pit of vipers I have to traverse each day and try to escape unscathed. Of course, I didn't mean to alienate myself so decisively, all I made was one comment about someones mum’s fake arm (everyone knows its there why aren't we allowed to ask about it?) and said that I thought Lucy had been a bit of a slut (she did some s****l stuff with five, FIVE members of school rugby team - IN ONE NIGHT), does that not count as slutty behaviour? Why is it so wrong to actually take some of the thoughts in this mental head of mine and let them out? I’ll go mad if I have to hold my tongue any more than I already do. I wasn’t being mean behind someones back like they are to me. I said it to the girls in question and apparently now I’m a pariah. Like full leper. Send me off to the colony and lock away the key. Nobody will speak to me. I’ll be ok. I think. I mean, possibly. Its not like I want to die but if I could it would at least switch off this annoying chatter, and fear and well just deep belly aching horror in my gut but we can talk about other body parts later. Anyways, better get back to the important stuff. My boyfriend. My saving grace amongst the darkness of everyday life. He’s older, he’s 17, (nearly 18) and rides a motorbike. A MOTORBIKE. Swoon. Well, its a moped but it runs on petrol and is not a pushbike. He is tall (I’m 5ft nothing so everyone is tall to me, but he is actually tall) and blonde with this kind of shaggy, indie style fringe that he flops out the way with little head dips. He’s forever running his fingers through it and it makes me feel all weak at the knees. He’s from out of school - (obviously no-one at school would ever consider dating me now) and he lives about fifteen minutes away from me on a kind of rough estate. We haven't mentioned where he lives to the parents - they’re kind of snobbish. I’m not either, but I do fully prefer not going to his animal filled, always kind of dirty abode. I’m all about the meeting in the park to have a picnic (Tesco’s value meal deal) or going to the cinema. In the cinema in the darkness he can’t see all the the nasty, fear thoughts in my head leaching out through my facial expressions. It is awesome. We’ve only kissed yet, I'm so afraid of anything else - whether I would do it wrong, but I just have to shut up yet another fear thought and just focus on the now. The now is Saturday morning at 11am. I’m meeting John at 2pm at the Brewery, Romford. The Brewery is a complex of shops, cinema, shitty chain restaurants and an arcade and is a mecca for Essex girls on dates/trying to pull. Squads of lusty teenagers patrol the place like lions on the savannah, taking the best territory in which to spot their prey (I mean new ‘friends’). This is outside McDonald’s as it turns out. I have to take two buses to get there and I have lied to my father about where I am going and with whom. I have said I am meeting Elsa, Lily and Robin in the high street at 12pm when in fact I will take a bus to the high street, change buses and go on a further forty minutes to Romford. This is against my permitted freedoms as a fifteen year old. Romford is rough, and may only be visited whilst accompanied (eurgh) / or with strict drop off and collection procedures. Long. Any mention of Romford is followed by endless interrogations about who will be there, what time the film is and a detailed recounting of all the stabbings that have occurred there since time began. Cheers Dad. I get it. Life is just a series of events with a probability score on how likely I am to get stabbed. Which according to you 100% likely, all of the time. So I say I’m going to the high street for 12 o’clock with the girls (none of whom speak to me anymore but he doesn’t need to know that) and then I switch to the 442 and headphones in I will ride to the forbidden destination of Romford. It is infarct the least exotic destination you could imagine, but to to me today, in the new throes of a relationship, with a boy, nearly a man it feels like I am on route to a remote jungle paradise where anything is possible. Albeit with the delicious smell of suncream replaced with the not so delicious aroma of stale chips. God I wish I could get that boob job. Then John will love me and my voluptuous figure forever, he’ll never abandon me, or tell me I’m not beautiful enough. I will be enough, more than enough in fact, TOO MUCH, I will be all powerful, a MAGNIFICENT LARGE BREASTED ADONIS!!! Okay so my head and the strange mind within in got a little carried away there. I don’t mean to ramble. I just have so much in there you know? Like a bag full of fighting kittens. Wriggling and clawing around trying to find freedom. I don’t have anyone to share them with, except you Diary. But you are an object. Incapable of responding, of acknowledging my absolute weirdness. I wish I had just one person to talk to about this stuff. Now Mum’s gone I can’t share it with her, even though her responses had always played along a standard script of “Oh well, sweetie, their loss. They’ll find someone else to talk about soon. Don't pay them any attention.” Pay them attention?! They swarm me, they direct acid looks at me in every lesson, in the hallways I am subjected to their continuous bile about me while I stand, alone, three metres away. HOW DO YOU INGORE THAT? But its irrelevant, she’s not here even to direct her banal adult responses at me. She’s only ten minutes away but Dad won’t let me see her. That story is related to another body part. You’ll hear about it later. I have decided on the light acid washed Miss Selfridge (petite obviously) hipster jeans that I definitely did not shoplift last Christmas. They are snug as a bug and apart from the thinning around the undercarriage where my thighs rub together I think look pretty reasonable. I mean, I’m still tiny, I just have this little kind of belly pouch that has appeared in the two years since I stopped doing gymnastics and dance (school will teach you that it is not cool to try). Its not that offensive. I mean, I want to take a machete to it and burn it on a ceremonial fire but even in my limited understanding of medicine - I would not survive this procedure. Perhaps Wishlist will now be: Get a boob job Get a tummy tuck Find some friends These all seem fairly impossible now but if I think about them enough, wish them to be true then perhaps I will some how transform the universe into a generous wonder palace where all the things we want happen spontaneously. Here’s hoping. I have teamed the jeans with a plain black t-shirt, hiding a very plain but ultra- double- incredibly - super powerful padded Wonderbra. Well, not Wonderbra exactly, a cheap Debenhams version, again definitely not shoplifted from the aforementioned department store. It looks ridiculous. Even I can see that those are definitely not the breasts of a girl this tiny in height, squishy in waist and fifteen (nearly sixteen) year old. In combination with the two shades too dark foundation I have slathered over my face and neck and the ‘Pocahontas’ jet black home dye job I did, I look like someone that goes viral for culturally misappropriating native Indians at a halloween party and become a pariah in their community. Fortunately I have at least already managed this without offending any other cultures so there is little they can do to shame me now. HA! I WIN! I am already so socially unacceptable nobody actually looks at my social media anymore! Even to mock me. I am just nobody. I know I’m wearing too much makeup, my head protests that I feel weighed down, exposed and just physically sticky to the touch. I will cast a series of splashes of orange onto anything I touch, an inadvertent graffiti artist leaving the orange smear on the bus, the aisles of the food shop, John’s face, neck, clothes and hands. I don’t change it. I need this war paint, this protection from the grim ugliness of me. I’ve always been told I'm pretty, by family, friends, the neighbours (weird) but I don't feel it one bit. I feel out of place, like a dodgy photoshop job where somebody put a giant d**k behind a lady being proposed to. I don’t like feeling like this. I want to be free of that negative voice that constantly reminds me I’m not good enough. That is why the boob job is so necessary. And now perhaps tummy tuck. It is the key to happiness, self-confidence, world wide respect. No more padded bras full of empty space where no boob exists to fill it. Porn star good looks cemented with my witty and dazzling personality (I will find somewhere to buy this too). I will be unstoppable. And then maybe someone will love me. John I don’t think, is in love with me. Luckily he is nothing to do with school so he doesn't know what a real loser I am. I still have a chance to keep him. I met him in a pool club (pool, like snooker but easier) and he was with a childhood friend of my older brothers who I hadn’t seen in years. Since, you know I hit puberty. I was with a boy mate of mine who taught me to play pool. I’ve always been competitive in sport you see. Gymnastics from 3, dance from 5, karate, netball, rounders, basketball (until everyone else grew and I remained child sized), hockey, football I love it all. Pool is contemplation and focus and I care so much about winning for a second I stop thinking about everything else that sucks in my life. So I played on the table next to him and I guess I could see him looking but I think he was staring at my pool skills rather than me. Eventually my brothers mate came over said hi and introduced me to John. Without school friends, girls really in general there, it was as if I was among my brothers - more comfortable, relaxed. John wanted to play me at pool. I agreed. I played my absolute best, trying not to be distracted by his big grin, lovely teeth and that out there fringe. I won. I said my friend and I had to go. He asked for my number and I gave it. He text me before I’d made the exit door two flights of stairs above. Finally, someone had said something nice to me.