It's Kind Of Like Frogger, But With The Superego...

Jeannie didn't necessarily want breast implants.  She, like most affluent urbanites  in their mid-twenties, was lumbering towards a ubiquitous sense of symmetry, and her breasts -- analogous to her lack of punctuality or pronounced speaking voice -- were coral in a sea of personal bullet points that needed remedying.  She sipped her Kombucha, not quite assimilated to the briny taste. The condescension dripping southward in mini-armadas all across the bottle transfered to her hands with each woeful gulp, and so on and so forth the keyboard on her laptop computer soon collected it's own mini-oases over non-related letters and numbers.

She didn't mind the research so much, kind of made her feel industrious and on the ball.  But Symmetry: piece of mind, oneness, this pendulous coupling of zen was monstrously expensive, upwards of eight grand of which she had 526 dollars to her name.  Hmm, let's see she thought: sell the record player?  No, tethered too tight to my personal aesthetics.  Get a second job?  Nah, If I'm gone all the time I can't mop up these other solipsistic maladies.  Maybe something homeopathic?  Meditating?  Incantations?  Find a Shaman who specializes in Augmentations of all shapes and sizes (pun sadly not recognized)?  Maybe...

Her cell phone rang, it was an old model, another source of insecurity and consumerist rung on the ladder to enlightenment.  It was her manager from the restaurant.  One of the dishwashers found, while cleaning out all the employees lockers -- a bi-yearly event advertised weeks in advanced, in the name of cleanliness mostly -- a vial of cocaine, half-full.  And Rosco would have kept it for himself if not for the Manger, Eugene, to have fortuitously walked through at that very moment.  Eugene, a born-again something, Jeannie couldn't really recall, was fuming.  She was asked, well, told to resign or face criminal prosecution.  In effect, she was fired.  The money train derailed.

She hit the END button on her shitty phone, tossing it haphazardly against the wall, uncaring of its fate.  And, in a biting lachrymose moment that would haunt her for the next 15 or so days, she took one last look online at the perfect pair of Breasts she'd hoped to make her own, and logged off the internet.