Beloved Cornell — Allow me to express my undying love for those things near and dear to my heart: boobies.

I’ve been thinking about them quite a bit recently. It seems wherever I go, breasts are waiting. I mean, they’re there all along. On me. And plenty of other women. But breasts are more than deposits of fat. They’re deposits of fun. They can change your mood — even your whole outlook on life. They’re a concept, for goodness sake, telling us to be soft but firm, gentle and resilient, perky when you feel like it and gosh darnit, saggy when you wanna.

So ladies: this one’s for you and your jigglers.

Now, it’s my sense that a woman who makes it clear that she loves breasts cannot do so without encountering some weirdness from other people. There’s the obvious assumption that said woman is into breasts because she’s into other women. Sure. But what if she’s not? What if she appreciates boobs for their aesthetic? For their amazing potential to sustain human life? For the way sunshine hits a slither of cleavage on the first day it’s warm enough to go without a scarf?

Breasts come in so many variations, it’s hard not to be astonished by them. Each one is as unique as a fleshy, nippley snowflake. From mouthfuls to handfuls, on up to armfuls and beyond, they’re beautiful all a-round. Even fake breasts have their place in the hallows of boobdom. I haven’t met anyone who prefers a fakie to the real deal, but I guess they’re out there.

However, while I’m on the subject, let me take this moment now to discourage you single-scoop mamas from getting breast implants. I’ve only touched a small smattering of the Natural’s silicone cousin, and I don’t care how good the technology is now, it’s just not the same. Please. Learn to love your chi-chis the way they are. And if you love them but think other people won’t, believe me when I tell you there’s a pair of hands looking into the stars every night wishing for a rack like yours to fall into it.

It might be obvious that my adoration of breasts comes largely from a place of wanting to touch other people’s on a regular basis. And I can’t even try to refute it. I can’t think of softer, nicer, more awesome things to love. Scrotums just don’t cut it. Sure, the delicate skin of a scrotum is often soft and gentle. It is also often covered in hairs and let’s be real, you can’t cuddle a nutsack. You can, however, fondle the hell out of breasts without fear of terribly hurting their owner — but let’s always remember that these are breasts and not stress balls, thank you.

Putting my lust for bosoms aside for a short moment, we can still consider the many aspects of breasts that have nothing to do with doin’ it and yet somehow maintain boobs’ inherent wonder. It’s pretty likely that you ate from there when you were a kid. Take a moment and consider that. Sneak a glance down your own shirt or peek over at the pair next to you.

Things very much like those produced a substance that allowed you to live. Holy. Shit. Are you not amazed? You should be. I don’t know a damn thing about science, but I’m pretty sure that’s like a notch away from photosynthesis.

Not into the baby food thing? Fine. How about the fact that breasts are remarkable mood enhancers? I’ll tell you a secret. I got some seasonal affective disorder going on. But I have a little trick. When I’m feeling a wave of the blues coming on, I go to my room, take off my shirt and stand in front of the mirror. And I jiggle. I jiggle my boobies from here to kingdom come. Do that and try not to laugh. I dare you. You can’t do it. You just can’t not laugh at watching your tits bounce up and down like you got a couple of Slinkies under your skin. Your body provided you with toys. Play with them.

Of course, not everyone who has breasts wants or likes them, and certainly isn’t about to go playing with them like mini moon bounces. While I wish I could single-handedly change that, I understand it. There are piles of reasons women might not enjoy their breasts, but our own cultural hang-ups don’t exactly help the situation.

What’s the deal? We love breasts but we can’t show them. We’re fascinated with them while we’re disturbed by them. We can see them on television, even in commercials (as attempted by those skeevy bastards at PETA) — but we are mortified by a woman’s public breastfeeding. Society’s great boobie-based contradiction is that women should show off their breasts as sexual objects only in very specific circumstances, almost always for the benefit and pleasure of men. Yet if taken out of those contexts, the breast is no longer allowed to be sexual or sensual — rather, it’s to be ignored altogether, shunned and shamed. Fuck that shit.

According to New York State law, it is legal for a woman to be topless in public as long as it is not within a commercial context. Because we are chomping at the bit to sell ourselves. I don’t know about you, but as soon as my titties come out, I’m all “T-SHIRT, FIVE DOLLARS.” OK, OK, maybe I can understand the hooker clause. And good on you, New York, for letting the breasts flow freely.

Although there have been demonstrations, I don’t know a damn person who would take advantage of New York’s tit-friendly policy on an average day. I wouldn’t and I’m ashamed to say it. I have a strong personal commitment to breasts, and I can’t even bare ’em downtown.

Breasts need more community support —more consideration as multi-faceted parts of multi-faceted people. If there’s one single thing you do this weekend, let it be loving your breasts or the breasts of someone you love. This exercise may result in extreme smiles, incredible feelings of amazement and a sense of overall well-being.

I stand in awe of breasts, Cornell. Stand with me.