Tragedy has struck and the world as I knew it is no longer.

I find myself adrift in an ocean of grief once again, yearning for what once was and what can never be.

I’ve lost my superpowers boob rings.

Well, technically, I didn’t lose them. They are sitting on my bathroom counter, mocking me with their shiny goodness as my nipples weep in despair.

Damn modern technology and it’s fickle ways for making me remove them so I could have a CT scan on my back.

Cursed be the nurse who insisted I remove them before the scan.

Drat my forgetful mind and the muscle relaxants which void me of any and all reasoning skills and not remembering to put them back in until two whole days later.

My boobs, they are broken with out their shiny happy rings poking through them.

I am like Wonderwoman without her magic lasso or invisible jet.

I now have *shudder* normal boobs. Regular funbags with no spectacular dazzling lures attached at their ends.

I am just a plain jane gal with boring boobs and a bad back.

I feel so lost.

Why yes, I do believe I am having an identity crisis without my shiny silver hoops.

(And why yes, I do realize how pathetic and slightly disturbing this makes me. No need for y’all to point out the obvious.)

Don’t get me wrong. I tried to put them back in. Oh how I tried. I drew blood and sweat trickled down my face as I tried to jam the cursed things back into the holes they came out of.

It was of no use and I possibly probably scarred my children for life as they wandered into my bathroom to see what all the moaning and groaning and cussing was about.

(I think it’s a safe bet to presume they will never feel the urge to poke holes in their body after watching me jab at myself in a futile fervor to get my nips back to their former state of glory. Their uptight, conservative father will likely appreciate that.)

Oh, I know on the grand scale of life this is but a wee hiccup when faced with war and famine and Donald Trump’s comb over.

But I have carefully cultivated and honed my identity as the blogging chick with the sparkly boobs for years now. The boobs they held mystical power, mesmerizing all who came around.

Now? I’ve got some dried up old tittays with the odd black nipple hair sprouting up. I’ve beaver tails that have been gnawed upon and hang deflated, bouncing around like two kids on a trampoline.

My mojo…tis lost. (It’s probably hiding in the same place Donald Trump keeps his dignity.)

Who will want to see a topless chick sitting on her front deck, surfing the net without the passing glint from the sun catching their eye and bedazzling them with my pretties?

Oh sure, there will be no more tug of war when the dogs accidentally get their claws tangled in my hoops. Nor will my husband accidentally be able to yank them as he reaches out for me and snags them with his massive man hands.

But neither can I tie fishing line to each ring and hike the girls up either. I suppose it’s back to duct tape and padded bras. Dammit.

Unless…

Unless I re-pierce them.

Sure I could pay someone to do it for me in a sanitary, sterilized environment. But what fun would that be? I’m thinking a few ice cubes, a sharp needle and maybe a potato. That would totally work, right?

I have no choice. This is the journey life has forced upon me. My quest to be the booby blogger I once was and will be again.

Bland boobs and dead nipples will be no more.

Everyone has their burdens. This? This is mine, she vows as she eyes the sewing kit on her utility shelf.

Oh screw it. Who am I kidding?

I’m totally going to the piercing parlour to have them redone.

And I’m thinking something a little south of the border will be in order as well.

If nipple rings brought blogging mojo with it I can’t even fathom the intellectual stimulation a new piercing will bestow.