Recently, I was in need of a bra. So I did what any normal woman would do and bought a bra. It was expensive but it fits well, it's as comfortable as metal-lined tit restraints can be, and makes my rack look fantastic. It was totally worth the money. I don't know, however, that it was worth the series of emails I'm still getting from Victoria's Secret a week later, including this splendid piece of what-the-fuckery:
I just bought a bra. That was all. I didn't catch their eye cross a crowded smoke-filled bar. I didn't fight off three drunken frat boys armed with rohypnol and puka-shell necklaces just to get their number. I didn't spend the evening grinding on them like a power sander on a steel girder. I just bought a damn bra.
Look, Victoria's Secret, you're a nice company and all and I'm very glad I met you. I think we both got a lot out of it. I got a nice bra and you got fifty of my Earth dollars. But that's all. I thought we could keep this platonic, you know? Just business partners. Maybe even friends. But clearly you want more out of this relationship than I'm ready to give. We should make this break as clean as possible. Please stop emailing me. I know it's hard, but you'll find another customer someday, possibly one who will buy more undergarments than I ever could. I have faith in you. No, don't cry. It's not you, really! I'm just not ready for this type of commitment.