Smoke & Mirrors - The Epilogue

Years ago, I had a blog on another site.  There I'd post on a daily basis, under the pseudonym of ToontownJuggalo.  I was lucky when I came up with that name.  I was the first one ever to be referred to by that name.  Numero uno.  On that site, I posted only as that persona and never divulged a single secret about who I was, although much of my personality did bleed into those posts.  I never shared any of those entries on Facebook or Twitter.  They all remained in-house, so to speak.  It was on that sight that I wrote about Chewbacca never having shit stuck in his fur.  That's where I first speculated on the the reason behind why Christ Benoit committed those horrific acts towards his family before committing suicide, which was a full six months before the science came back and YES, confirmed my theory ten-fold.  It was also on that site, where I would write out what was affecting me on that day.  Celebrations that I never got to share with anyone, as well as the sorrow and sadness of coping with whatever was bothering me.  There was a hand full of regular readers, none of which were directly affiliated with me, except when I was dealing with the loss of my friend Darcy.  That's when I needed to share with people and the stone wall that I had built around my "illness" began to crumble.

As the years have passed by, I've kept most of my walls up, guarding myself from being hurt.  It's easier for me to deal with my demons one-on-one, than it is to fight them off and worry about what everyone else is thinking.  I know that at the core of it all, the really important people in my life, will be there in a time of crisis, if needed.  I only hope that I have the courage necessary to extend a hand in hopes of getting that support.

I've said it before and I'll say it again.  I'm shy.  I'm painfully shy.  I'm like Robin Williams, in a way.  I could always see that insecurity that he possessed.  He acted out, all happy, goofy and comically in an effort to mask his insecurities, but those of us who know...  We knew.  I'm just like Robin, only instead of being jovial, I'm snide and snarky.  Kind of a dick, at times.  I like to joke, but my sense of humour is dark, just like my soul.

I'd like to be more popular.  I'd like people to want to have me around.  I'd like people to miss me, even.  I wish I could be like other people.  But I don't want to be other people.  I'd like to know how to be like them.  Confident and self-assured.  I don't know how to be like that.  I don't know how to make friends.  I have friends, but I honestly don't know when they transitioned from being acquaintances to being friends.

I remember when the towers came down on 9/11.  Sitting alone in my livingroom, eyes glued on the television set, and I never felt so alone.  I got news over a year ago about black spots found on my lung and I had to endure that alone.  Still have to.  I'm trying hard not to think about it, but I have to admit, it's getting increasingly difficult to do so.

I used to have a couple female friends who would happily give me a hug whenever I'd ask.  Trisha...  I miss Trisha's hugs.  She was a single mom and her hugs always felt so warm and genuine.  Taya was the same way.  My friend Sonia always offers up a hug when I see her.  That's always a highlight, but I wouldn't dare ask anyone I'm currently with, because I know I'd get that "are you f*cking serious" look.  I don't need that look.

Today, this is me.  The walls have all crumbled away.  This is who I am.  Take it or leave it.  I'm done.  I'm tired of hiding in the shadows.  It's time to step into the light, my faults and everything.  Sadly, my family will still not know who I am, but aah.  F*ck 'em..!

Now if you'll excuse me.  I've been sitting at this table on this hard-as-f*ck chair for over six hours, closing in on seven.  My ass hurts tremendously and I have a headache forming.  My cat is screaming like a banshee and won't use his words to explain.  I'm going to go smoke a bowl and have a good night.   See you on the flip-side.

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter Four: Coping Mechanisms

I did a lot of homework before I bought my truck in 2008.  I wanted bang for my buck.  I wanted to get as much as I possibly could for one price.  Initially, I was going to buy the Honda CRV, crossover, but I read that the vehicle didn't offer much by way of good gas mileage.  Then I considered the Ford Escape Hybrid, but read that if taken on the highway, the fuel consumption was higher than the V6 model.  Then I set my sights on the Honda Ridgeline pick-up truck.  The gas mileage was great.  It was a unibody, it rides great.  It's all the comforts of a car, including a trunk located in the box.  It had a lot of umph!  Get up and go.  I test drove the Ridgeline a number of times, then when the day came to buy, I went into the dealership, knowing exactly what I wanted, and called out "no bullshit".  My research was so precise that when I requested the gold accents on the logo and name placard, I knew the order code.

So what does this have to do with coping with stress, anxiety and depression?  I'll get to that eventually.  My point is this.  I don't do hardly anything without looking into every possible avenue.  I want that umph.  I want the most bang for my buck.  I want to tackle everything efficiently.  And I feel I have.

As stated in Chapter One, I suffer from something that I call "Seasonal Depression".  I've never formally been diagnosed by my physician for depression, but I'm not a f*cking idiot.  If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, there's a 99% chance (+/- 1%) that it's a f*cking duck!  So if for more than ten years I've been gloomy, sad and depressed from Halloween through to just after my mom and sister's birthday's, chances are I suffer from depression.

This year I decided to try something new.  I began listening to online podcasts about a year and a half ago, with a majority of it culminating in the last year.  I listen to a great many different podcasters, of whom include, Adam Corolla, Kevin Smith & Scott Mosier, Ari Shaffir, Joe Rogan, and I especially like Bert Kreischer (though I constantly f*ck up the spelling of his name) and Doug Benson.

In addition to his love of movies, Doug Benson is a notorious pot smoker, and like Joe Rogan, promotes the positive medicinal attributes that marijuana provides.  The more I listened, the more I began to wonder.  I wondered if smoking marijuana would improve my "seasonal depression", so I set forth to do my due diligence.  I researched the f*ck out of the benefits of smoking marijuana and any negatives that it might create.  After all, inhaling smoke is not a naturally occurring phenomena, although the first nations people have been smoking different plants in their rituals for hundreds or even thousands of years, so... Who knows?

Everything I read on the subject reflected nothing but positivity, zero negatives, other than putting on a few pounds.  So I moved forward with this "experiment" and yes.  I'm coming out in this chapter of this blog series, that I smoke pot, but just for the medicinal purposes.  I'm not a daily smoker.  I only use it as needed.  I've not used any in a couple of weeks, and the effects of not using have been tremendous.  I've been sad and depressed for more than a week.  My friend made a remark the other day and it broke my heart.  I was truly hurt.  That's my downfall.  I can seem fine, then one off remark can send me spiraling and it's every ounce of courage to regain my composure.  The remark was in reference to my blogs, my subject matter and though they were enjoyable, they were equally inappropriate.  We've made amends, not that we were squabbling, but it's taken me every shred of confidence and will to dig myself out of this hole I find myself in.  I think this is, in part, due to my not medicating myself.  I have a lot of stress on my shoulders.  Unemployment being one.  Health issues are in the back of my mind.  Loneliness, despite having a cat, is still loneliness.

Since starting this new chapter of smoking pot, I've found it beneficial in overcoming most of my "seasonal depression", the migraines that plague me throughout the colder months have been VERY few and far between, which I relish immensely, and much to my surprise, my asthma has improved, as well.  I usually have to rely on one inhaler a month (roughly) to combat my breathing issues.  During the more frequent usage of marijuana, my asthma was not an issue, hardly.  Maybe a puff every other day.  Put it this way.  I got an inhaler just before Christmas, and I'm still on the same inhaler more than a month later.  In recent weeks, with the decline of smoking, I've had to rely on it a little more, but it's still pretty impressive I think.

So I did my homework and got the best truck for me.  I did my homework and got the best television SmartTV, that I could get.  And I did my research to learn that marijuana in addition to a plethora of other advantages, also quashes my depression.  I don't know why it's illegal.  I really don't.

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter Three: The Escape Plan

Earlier this year, we were all shocked by the news of actor/comedian, Robin Williams have committed suicide by way of hanging.  He killed himself in the very same manner as my favourite pro wrestler, Chris Benoit.  Aside from Benoit's horrific acts that preluded to his suicide, the act of hanging oneself in the manner than these two individuals settled upon, has baffled me in the time since.  Neither one hung from a height, but instead, wrapped the belt around their necks then leaned into the hanging.  I apologize for the graphic detail, but suicide isn't a natural behavior.  At some point, the body's natural instinct for survival is going to set in and (should) override the predetermination of the suicide, but this never seemed to be the case.  I can't remember if Chris had any drugs or alcohol in his system at the time of his demise, and I never heard anything about Robin.

I'm no stranger to the contemplation of suicide.  I'd be remiss if I said that the thought had never crossed my mind.  It has, but it's only been twice..., I think.  Maybe three times.  Hopefully, through investigation in this chapter of my shitty little life, I'll be able to recall the exact number.  Although, I'm certain it's only been twice.

The first time, was a fleeting thought.  More of a "I'll show them", sort of mentality.  It was following the incident with my dad.  I had moved into the city, living with my aunt.  She worked out of town, so I had the apartment all to myself.  A lot of free time on my hands and most of it spent alone with my thoughts.  I do recall that at the time, I was reeling from the idea of a father beating his own son black, blue and bloody.  I couldn't wrap my head around it.  I'd never come to the "Jeckyll & Hyde" revelation until many years later.  Sadly, it was after his death.  I'd already made my peace with him and, in my opinion, we'd become friends.  However, at the tender age of seventeen, my brain was not fully developed yet, so my intelligence was still lacked.

One day, in a fit of depression, anxiety, anger and whatever else was in my head, spicing that stew of negativity, I came up with a plan of revenge.  I planned to kill myself, just so I could see the guilt on my father's face when he came to realize that he was the reason I had killed myself.  The plan, I thought, was foolproof.  That is, until I realized that I couldn't see the look of shame and guilt on his face, if I were dead.  I quickly discarded that plan, choosing life instead.

The second time I'd contemplated suicide was almost six years ago.  I got fired from a job, due to a violent reaction to a comment that a fellow worker had said (ironically) about my father.  I'm ashamed of my actions and I refuse to share those details in this forum, but suffice it to say, it was pretty f*cking bad.

Everyone's opinion of me was going to be, and I'm sure has been, forever altered.  Especially, after some of the embellishments I've heard over the years.  They were not kind and painted me in a much worse image than what had happened in reality.  I was brought up on charges of assault and faced real jail time, it was that bad.  Thankfully, I sought anger management straight away and that coupled with conflicting stories from the victim and the single witness, in addition to my honest and yes very unflattering description of events, helped me avoid jail and anything that would scar my permanent criminal record.  We settled by way of a mediator and a written apology, which I spent a full week of writing and re-writing to make it sound as honest as possible.  I really was sorry.

However, in the initial hours following the assault, I knew that a person of whom I cared for deeply would hear of my downfall and embellished facts of the matter and I thought that if she thought me to be a monster, that I couldn't live on from that.  Thankfully, I contacted her a day or two following my dismissal and everything was copacetic.  Our friendship would remain intact and suicide was never an option after that.

Lately, there seem to be a cornucopia of reports of people, young and old, committing suicide as a way of escaping their problems.  After my initial contemplation and realization, I never even considered suicide after that.  Other people venture into drugs and alcohol as a way of coping with stress and anxiety.  Having been a witness to how alcohol affected my dad, I strayed away from alcohol and drugs never seemed to be an option.  Instead, I dove head first into adventure.  I was a famed archaeologist, fighting the Nazi plight.  I was a scoundrel of a space pirate, battling the evil empire with my large hairy companion and a feisty princess at my side.  I was also a race car driver, a pirate, a nerdy high school kid who scored the hot cheerleader.  It seemed like week-to-week, I was a different charismatic character and sad thoughts and anxiety and loneliness was never a factor again.  Not for a few more years, anyway.  Whenever I'd feel low, sad or depressed, I'd escape to the movies and for two hours, I didn't have to be me, anymore.

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter Two: The Journey From Diffidence to Being An Asshole

I've mentioned to people that I am painfully shy.  Most don't believe me as I am, for the most part, a smart ass.  I'm quiet and reserved at first, gauging my surroundings, then I'll open up some, mostly offering up smart ass comments of teasing jabs.  I mean no malice, by it, just harmful fun with hopes of making people laugh.  This was a self-preservation tool that many bullied children adapt on the playground.  You're far less likely to get punched in the gut or your underwear hiked up your ass, if you can make the bully laugh, even if at your own expense.  I recall using this tactic many times on the mean playground at King George elementary.  Except one time where I became favourable with one bully, while infuriating another, which ultimately earned me a sharp punch to the abdomen.

These days, I'm always present with a sharp witty comment.  When I'm with my friend, Melissa, I will often hit her with a barrage of comments, when I see someone in my peripheral who's musing at my quips.  I can't recall any of which I can share right now, but I assure you, if you ever have the privilege of meeting her, you can ask her yourself.  She's not shy about sharing those moments.

I wasn't always that way, though.  I actually have been painfully shy at times.  Even today, I find myself stressing out about uncomfortable situations.  I had some people over to my house a few weeks back and stressed about that, even.  Back when I went to university, I was no different, despite my going away to a new city, with new surroundings, I looked at it as a chance to re-invent myself, then when faced with the opportunity to do so.  I caved.  Things got so bad, that I soon found myself ditching classes and in the evenings driving off to be alone at the movies.  I had ample opportunities to hang with classmates, but I found myself overwhelmed with anxiety and fear.  I'd come to my film class, quietly seated in the back, never raising my hand, never offering any input.  This was a class that, academically, I should have been superior to most of my classmates, but the fear of all eyes locking on my fugliness, was scarier than any bully I'd faced off with on the playground.  No witty remarks or jokes would overcome this brood of students, I felt.  Eventually the school year would come to a close, my marks were fair, but not nearly as good as if I'd have sacked up and joined the group.

I'd come home that spring, a failure in my own eyes.  Eventually, I'd need work and sadly the only work I could get was that of door-to-door sales.  To be a success at sales, you can't be f*cking shy for one moment.  It was here that I learned to mask my insecurities and push my personal envelope of comfortability.
Success as a salesman would elude me, however.  I was good at it, to a degree, but personal feelings and thoughts about honesty would overcome the sleaziness of sales and ultimately my demise from the vocation, although it was a car accident that would get me out of that line of work.

The next few years I worked retail, which helped me come out of my shell a little more, as well as add to my arsenal of being a smart ass.  My ultimate downfall, has always been, acting like a smart ass to the wrong people, supervisors and managers, to be more precise.  In an effort to avoid being uncomfortable or that scared little boy, I opt instead, to be a smart ass.  I guess, it's easier for people to hate me because I'm an asshole, than it is to deal with their hating me because of me.  Who knew being a dick would be a safeguard?

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter One: Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde

I was born into humble beginnings, growing up on a farm just west of the city.  I've written in the past that the farm was quite literally on the city limits of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, although when I was a tyke, the city seemed farther away.  Today, the city is practically on our doorstep, though no one has lived on the premises for over a decade.  Recently, I drove a friend out to show them a piece of my history, and I was astonished and even a little bit horrified at the sight I saw.  A decade of neglect has allowed the trees and shrubbery to grow over the lane way that leads into the yard.  We sold the property, my sister and I, a little over eight years ago, and I had only assumed that the new owners would've had someone care for the land.  It was, admittedly, a little heart-wrenching.

Being a kid plagued with a lot of allergies, it broke my father's heart when I couldn't follow in his footsteps and become a farmer like him, and his father before him and his granddad before him.  Many generation of farmers will cease to exist, because of me.  I'm not sure if my cousins partake in the livelihood, but it comes to mind that they do not.

In addition to farming, my dad also worked as a heavy duty mechanic in a number of mines, including a gold mine up north, but he concluded his career at the Allan Potash Mine, in Allan, Saskatchewan.  My dad was diagnosed with two types of cancer when he'd gone into the hospital to complain of low-energy.  He was not the type who would seek medical attention unless he felt it was serious.  It was serious and it was caught way too late, and a few months later, at the age of just 54, my dad was dead.

Just writing those words makes me want to break out in tears.  My dad was a good man.  He was a great man.  .... He was the best man, ever.   When he was sober.  When he was drunk, it was a completely different story.  When he was drunk, you did not want to be anywhere near him.  You wouldn't want to be in the same city or plain of reality.  At the time, I thought of him as a monster.  In the years since, I've identified it as "Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome".   When he was sober, he was "Dr. Jeckyll".  A free-spirited man, with love and happiness in his heart, generous to a fault, but when he was drunk, ie. "Mr. Hyde", he was a real son-of-a-bitch.  He was a monster.., truly.  He was angry.  He was violent. And like I said, you did not want to be around him, at all.

As a young fellow, I was not immune to his anger.  Many times I found myself on the wrong end of a swinging fist or two.  A couple of times I was tossed up against the wall, his grip tightly wound around my neck and told that I wasn't worth the bullet it would take to blow me to hell.  I was a little insulted as the cost of a .22 shell in those days, were literally pennies on the dollar.  An aptly placed .22 shell can bounce around the cranium and tear up the brain quite efficiently, unless my mafia movies have lead me astray.  But the one incident that weighs the most heavily on me and continued to do so for a number of years, likely because I would identify the occasion on it's anniversary every year, was what occurred just three days prior to my seventeenth birthday on November 26th at 7:02pm.

My sister and I had been arguing before my dad had gotten home.  My mom had left, attending a union meeting in the city, so we were at home when my dad arrived.  He was already three sheets to the wind.  My sister was in her room and I was in mine.  I don't know what exactly the conversation was between my sister and my dad, but at 7:02pm, while seated on my bed, I heard a light knock on my door, followed by a soft spoken request to come in.  I said yes, and my dad slowly stepped into the room.  Suddenly, in a burst of energy, he lunged at me.  The room grew dark, his eyes glowing sharply, as he drew down on me, grabbing me with his left and pummeling me with his right.  He got two hits in, before I broke free, going for a baseball bat leaning in the corner, but he grabbed a hold of me, throwing me back on the bed and proceeding to hit me few more times before nearly breaking my arm.  Then suddenly, the frenzy ended as quickly as it had begun.  Calmly he picked me up off the bed and led me into the bathroom, where he proceeded to explain to me about respect, for him and my sister, all the while I was cleaning the blood from my face.

In the end, I had a bruised clavicle, three or four broken teeth, my earring was ripped (backwards) through my ear, and my nose was smashed.  I sat at the table for an hour or two, listening to how it hurt him more to have to teach me this lesson than it did me for receiving said lesson.  My mom eventually came home, and was instructed to take me to the hospital.  That's where a doctor twisted my nose back into place, making it appear more presentable, although I wish closer attention was given to it, as it never healed properly and eventually gave me a lot of headaches in the years that followed.

Today, the nose barely gives me any grief, although during really cold weather, it does hurt some.  Not to mention if I so much as bump it the wrong way or someone jokingly plays that "I got your nose" game that people play with small children, that motherf*cker will bleed uncontrollably.  Some have told me, since, that I should get it re-broke and set correctly, but ask anyone who's actually had that procedure done, and it's no picnic.  I'd rather live with the discomfort and the possibility that I might piss someone off and have them break my nose instead.  It'd make for a better story.

Now....  I've painted a very grim picture of my father.  Something that I've shared with very few people.  Hell, even my family, don't know the intimate details of the violence that commenced that night.  They don't read my blog.  They don't have Facebook or Twitter.  Unless a family member who does have either of these social media outlets, reads these words, I'm sure the images will die with me.

My dad was a good man.  He would eventually sober up, putting his days of drunkenness behind him.  I remember on his one year anniversary of sobriety.  We were driving when he informed me that, "today is my one year anniversary of being sober."  I congratulated him and asked how he felt.

"I don't feel any different now than when I was drinking." he muttered, to which I quickly replied, "Then I guess there's really no point in drinking anymore, then."   He paused for a moment, visibly thinking about the words I'd just spoken, then realized, "No.  I guess not."

When my dad was drinking, there were many many opportunities where he could have and probably should have died as a result of his being drunk.  He survived every single one, without so much as a scratch.  After a few (beautiful) years of sobriety, he learned he had cancer and died.

Those decades of drunkenness never affected me in the negative way that people would suspect.  I'm sure there are people (albeit probably only two, maybe three) who will read about my dad and believe otherwise, but truly believe me.  His drinking never affected me, mentally, in the long run.  It was his sobriety that would eventually teach me that I should try new things.  He did new things, learned new skills and traveled to places he likely never would have attempted all the years he hid in those bottle of booze.  That's what I take from my dad.

And in retrospect, different people deal with mental disorders and depression in different ways.  Who's to say that my dad didn't suffer from some form of depression which he suppressed through alcohol?  It's possible.  Like I stated, unless he was feeling really terrible, he never sought medical attention.  I doubt feeling sad would have sufficed in the seeking of aid.

Smoke & Mirrors - The Prologue

For days, I've been dipping in and out of a funk.  My own private hell, as I've dubbed it in the past.  I don't know what is the cause of it, but it's something that I've endured for a lifetime.  The hardest part of it all, is enduring these phases alone.  Thankfully, in recent years, I have my cat, Monkey, to distract me from the sadness, but his love and affection only helps so far, before I find myself sad and alone once more.

I've never been clinically diagnosed with any sort of mental disorders, then again, I've never sought any help from my physician in identifying anything of the sort.  I've never been one looking to be labeled as anything, so this condition would run along those lines.  This year, I've managed to cope better than I have in the last decade or more, so that's what's prompting this blog entry today.

As I stated, I've been yo-yo'ing in and out of sadness for a few days.  It began with watching a special that aired on the weekend regarding the (then) upcoming #BellLetsTalk campaign on January 28th, 2015 that addressed the issue of Mental Health.  2015 marks the fifth anniversary of the campaign, which helps in the identification of mental health being a very real disease, rather than something fabricated for attention seekers.  I watched a similar special a few years ago, which helped me identify what it is (& was) that I'd been dealing with for a very long time.  Since then, I've named it "seasonal depression".  Seasonal, because I seem to only suffer (it's worst) from the end of October, clear through to about March or April.  The summer months, for the most part, while lonely, don't seem to affect me too terribly.  It's just the autumn and winter months that f*ck with me.

So how to broach the subject is what has been plaguing my mind.  I am, after all, an artist of sorts.  Writing, at the moment, seems to be my canvass and I wish to paint this picture in broad colourful strokes.  I didn't know what colour to begin with until I took a stupid quiz on Facebook that asked "What colour of the rainbow are you?"  I took the idiotic quiz and got the result of YELLOW.  The description that accompanied the colour, couldn't be further from the truth of how I perceive myself.  It reads as follows:

Yellow is the color of sunshine and symbolizes happiness and friendship! It can stimulate mental energy and cheerfulness and definitely represents you! You love to have fun with your loved ones and your smile can light up a room! Good morning sunshine!

How absurd, right?  I've never felt cheerful and while I do enjoy having fun, I've never done so with "loved ones", whom I assume would be family, and my smile definitely does not light up a room.  Complete hog wash, all of is.  In fact, by re-reading this statement, I can't help but think there is a f*ck of a lot more wrong with me than initially believed.

Initially, I believed this could be discussed and shared over the course of a single blog, but the more thought I put into the subject, the more I come to realize that I need to open up about the past.  Though, it's in my most honest belief, my past is not a contributor to the present.

I Heart Boobs

I was patiently waiting in line at the Bulk Barn today.  I glanced over to another register just as it's teller stooped to pick something up off the floor.  The shirt she was wearing, was not buttoned all the way to the top and as she knelt, I caught a full view of her ample bosom.  Not to sound like a pig, but I suspect the ship has sailed on that, but she had a lot to be proud of.

Fast forward to tonight.  I'm filing through an employment website, continuing the search for gainful employment.  I come across a retail sales associate at a nationwide department store, The Bay.  They're seeking a Sales Associate for the Lingerie Department.  I jokingly mention it to a friend I'm conversing with on Facebook, adding my love of 'boobs' as a benefit.  To my surprise, she urges me to apply.  I insist that I was joking, but she prompts me to apply anyway.  Facetiously, I though of how the interview would play out.

Interviewer: What qualifications do you feel you possess that would be beneficial to you if you were selected for this position?

Me: Well, I'm notorious for looking at boobs.  Morning, noon and night, it's boobs, boobs, boobs.  I guess you could say, "I love tits!"

Interviewer: PERFECT!!  YOU'RE HIRED!!  When can you start?!?

In a perfect world, boobs would be the answer for all of life's problems.  No gas in the car?  Boobs!  No food on the table?  Boobs!  Credit card bill is overdue?  No problem!  BOOBS!  Trouble in the Middle East?  Boo...  Actually, a nice pair of boobs in the Middle East, might be what the doctor's ordered.

As an after thought, I might send in an application for the Lingerie Salesperson job, just as a joke.  I love breasts, so I feel I'm qualified.  (I had to pause while typing that last sentence, as I broke out with laughter.)

The average age of the cliental who frequent The Bay is....  Golden age, I believe.  I'm a pig.  I'm shallow and yes, I like boobs, but not the old wrinkly ones.  Ample boobs and cleavage would be a benefit of any job, provided you can look without being caught, but "they don't pay the bills", as my friend admitted.  It'd be nice and perhaps they do in Vegas, but in the real world, this isn't the case.

Maybe "soapy tits"... ;)