I developed at an early age. I remember having a flat-chested, no-hipped, straight up and down body that ran on chocolate soymilk and Judy Blume. And suddenly one summer, after what seemed like no time at all, BAM! Boobs. Hips. Ass. Before I knew it I was a teenager made of shapes, and instead of soymilk and angsty teen lit, I subsisted on anxiety and Disney original movies. (Brink, Luck of the Irish and Motocrossed, I love you still). When you are an individual with ample… shall we say, “chest meats,” little things—things that seemed simple before—can bring you nothing but mental anguish.

Take for example, hugging. Hugging is a simple, seemingly innocuous act that brings flat-chested individuals no second thoughts. For me however, and really anyone above a C-cup, hugging is a battle between decorum and societal niceties that nearly always result in an implosion of anxiety.

There was one instance recently where this rang particularly true. I was out at a local watering hole (Duffy’s), and was trying to explain to my foxy man-friend the feeling of trying to ignore the fact that anytime I hug someone straight on, that they could feel my tits pressing against them. As was expected, he didn’t really understand. (Not his fault; unless men had testicles the size of bocce balls, how could they comprehend it?)

Anyway, I had just finished trying to explain to him why something like that could be so nerve-wracking, when his brother and close friend arrived. (They’re just one person; I don’t mean that two separate dudes showed up.) I then had the unpleasant task of trying to decide whether I should give him the front-hug (as I usually would) while knowing both myself and my man-friend would then be painfully aware of my chesticles on his, or give a side-hug and run the risk of hurting his feelings, as it would be a much more conservative hello than we’re used to.

My inner brainmonkeys jumped and screamed around my brain for the three-or-so seconds I had to figure out what to do, and because I’m an idiot, I settled on the side hug. The worst part of it all wasn’t the fact that he was going for a front-hug and I had to do a little shimmy-shoe action to quickly maneuver myself to his side—it was the embarrassed chuckle and the almost imperceptible shake of his head as he pulled away. What can I say? I don’t deal with these types of situations well… or any situations really. Sitting alone and reading, sleeping and showering, these are the activities I handle with aplomb. That’s the end of my story, but how fucked up is that? Hugging, man… it’s complicated.

Candy Crush Update: Level 148. 147 took me over a week. Feeling fatigued.

Zooey Mae has been working as a writer monkey for Synthesis Weekly since 2007. Her favorite things include (but are not limited to), Jeffrey Brown, bubble wrap, Craig Thompson, pillow forts, receiving handwritten letters, and whiskey. She spends her free time stockpiling supplies for the impending robot Apocalypse and avoiding eye contact with strangers.