It breathes
At any given time, your chest swells and contracts, your ribs pushes in and out with perfect rhythm, pulling in the air that gives life to your blood, stimulating your ability to think and feel, and then it forcefully, mercilessly pushes back out what you don’t need. Your lungs make air its bitch. It’s fucking hot. How is it possible that we spend so much time fixated on the size and shape of some useless lumps of fat sitting on top of our lungs, when there is something so visceral and powerful happening just below that. If anyone ever tries to say something bad about your boobs, just look at them like they are sad and misguided, like, “If being that close to my lungs doesn’t turn you on, I don’t even know what life you’re about.”
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