OMG. My tits are going viral! In the middle of the night the Daily Mail in the UK published a story about my breast reduction and now all these other news outlets have picked it up, mostly in the UK at this point. Some in the EU and US, even AU. My favorite so far honestly, is Scotland! I am finally a real Outlander! 😹 Google search “Annie Anderson breast reduction” and/or “Annie Anderson boob cast” and you will see! It’s crazy, y’all! Just from one 15 second Tiktok video I made!
After that video got 3 Million Views in a matter of days, I was contacted by a press agency. They wanted to write a story about my breast reduction. We worked out a deal and they sent me interview questions. I checked them out to make sure they were legit by contacting all the journalists I know and scoped out other content creators that they represent, so I knew what I was getting into. I knew it was hopefully going to hit The Daily Mail, The Sun, other tabloids and who knows where else! I knew they would try and make it sound crazy and fun and interesting and dramatic. I answered their questions and gave them some photos (I don’t remember giving them the damn parrot photo and regret it if I did, l will tell you the story behind that damn parrot some other time, lol) and then I didn’t hear anything for a week or so. The reporter emailed asking for more photos from 2012 when I first started to consider plastic surgery and from when I was younger. So I grabbed some of the photos that were not buried deep (like my memories) and sent them over. He said they would try and pitch the article the next day and he would let me know if anyone picked it up. Two nights went by, no email. When I was on my break at work I decided to google “Annie Anderson Breast Reduction Cast” and instantly the top three links were photos of me and stories! They had literally dropped a few hours before! So I knew before the reporter contacted me, lol.
The top hit was the article in The Daily Mail-UK. I opened the page and my jaw dropped and my hands and legs started trembling and my co-workers thought I was losing my mind…which incidentally might not be a unique occurrence, I know.
As the night went on , more and more websites were posting their version of the story. All very similar, but also different takes and interpretations of my interview answers. I did not write the article. And I know it’s a little outrageous, and I know it’s not “news” and I know there are plenty of women with boobs bigger than mine and I know this is the most I have laughed in 2 and a half years. There is so much beauty in that. I am finally at the place in a woman’s life that we learn to love ourselves as we are (yes, I know I needed surgery to get there) but I finally don’t give one flying fuck what some anonymous hater on the other side of the globe thinks of my decisions or of my body. You cannot hurt me by saying I’m fat anymore. I carried the pain of being called fat and I remember every single circumstance and face of the person that said it to me. Of their moms that heard them and either pretended not to or then yelled at them or punished them because they threw stones at me before I was wearing my armor. Of the guy that called me a “FAT CUNT” when I accidentally cut him off on the road. Well, I’m suited up now, Bitches! I am me. Your insults and idiocy mean nothing to me. And PS for the people bashing my tattoos in the comments, lol: I fucking LOVE my mid-life crisis aka party arm. My tattoos are badges of fucking honor. They are better than therapy to me. And I have plans for more.
So sit back and enjoy the ride…
You are lucky to know me as I am lucky to know you. Be kind. It’s not hard.
Or STFU. La, La, La, La, La…I can’t hear you.
And that, my friends, is the most powerful position a woman can be in. Wonder Woman. Gold-plated wrist guards to deflect all of your bullshit. And a gold lasso to pull myself out and away if I choose to go.
Here’s my angle. I remember being home alone, a lot. Standing in the kitchen and eating for so many reasons, most often not hunger. My mom always provided a roof over my head and food to eat somehow, someway.
When I was a child, I was usually the chubby kid. I have solid memories of my mom telling me to “suck it in” intermixed with eating my fries and at least half of hers. I remember nights where we had only an artichoke with mayo for dinner. I remember canned green beans and generic Mac and Cheese from the yellow or white box with black writing and nonfat milk with Crystal Light whipped with a hand mixer until it was fluffy cuz it was a low cal dessert and no, we never drink juice, empty calories. I remember crying in the grocery checkout because my stomach hurt so badly because I hadn’t eaten all day or I hadn’t eaten enough and the checker was giving my mom a hard time about the Food Stamps and we couldn’t get home fast enough to eat the liver in the bloody white tub and the ketchup my mom bought with the government’s money. So much ketchup. Drown it. Don’t even chew it. Choke it down. Do they even sell liver at the grocery store anymore? Let’s fucking hope not.
I do stand by an artichoke as a solid dinner option, usually paired with some kind of meat, BTW. Chicken breast or steak preferred. And I’m not gonna lie, I like me some A-1. And I add balsamic to the mayo cuz now I’m fancy.
1. the state or condition of having little or no money, goods, or means of support; condition of being poor.
2. deficiency of necessary or desirable ingredients, qualities, etc.: poverty of the soil.
3. scantiness; insufficiency.
That’s how you define poverty. I’m pretty sure if you qualify for Food Stamps in the state of California that you are living at poverty level.
I grew up in poverty.
And my mom worked hard and pulled us right out of that shit. The cycle broken. I’m broke, but I’m not poor. I worked hard and I pulled myself up a-whole-nother notch. I’m still working hard. At life.
So when the news agent asked if I was interested in allowing them to write a story about my breast reduction and basically represent me and my story to pitch to the world with the very slight possibility of making some money if it got picked up, I was all in. I embarrass myself for free every single day. I like to hand wash my laundry and hang it out to dry and I don’t give a damn who sees my underwear anymore.
It’s my underwear. I can show it if I want to.
You don’t have to click or follow, but I do appreciate it when you do. You don’t have to like what I have to say, but I also appreciate that when you do. When you get me. You don’t have to believe every tabloid headline, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t. Remember, I didn’t write the story, I just answered questions about my story.
Don’t get it twisted.
So let’s have fun and see where this goes. If we ain’t laughin’, we cryin’ and it’s time for us big mamas to live our best life in whatever way we can.
It’s time to love the life we are living.
And it’s time to shine.
Thanks, Sam, for finding me. Right after I found my damn self. 🖤