We've been on quite a journey you and I, since you first made your appearance in 1995.
You were late: I wondered for ages whether you were actually going to arrive, as I longingly looked at Tammy Girl crop tops and watched as other girls developed melons overnight.
And just as I was considering faking your arrival with ye olde faithful loo-paper-down-the-bra trick, behold, you turned up.
I'm not going to lie Boobs, at first when I realised you weren't really going to get any bigger, I was like WTF. I seemed to take after my mother in every other way, and that lady wasn't short of a mammary or two.
In fact after her supportive: "Sheesh, even the ironing board would be jealous of you" (a joke neither original or funny to a teenager wondering if it ever would be time to graduate to underwire), I began to harbour serious concerns.
Around 16, I was convinced that your lacklustre performance in the size department was the key obstacle to Attracting Boys. It had nothing to do with my Marilyn Manson makeup, ripped tights or penchant for Malibu and Coke.
Oh no Boobs, this was all on you.
I started to obsess about you, and not in a good way. It wasn't your fault but you made me feel pretty bad, and like no one would ever find me attractive. You consumed my whole focus when I should've been enjoying the beauty and luminescence of my youth.
I started a dangerous game of pinning my self-esteem to you, when I should've realised you were just a body part and some body parts are big and some are smaller than others. (Guys, take note).
I wasn't alone in this - there were several fellow human ironing boards at my school - and certainly some people took it harder than I did.
In fact, it was witnessing one friend madly stuffing 'oestrogen bread' into her mouth - 'it makes your breasts bigger' she said wild-eyed in the Common room - that gave me a bit of my sanity back.
No guy was worth eating special bread that came from a dodgy-looking bag. Plus, no offence to her, it didn't work.
The reason why I'm writing this to you is because today I came across an article with tips from a plastic surgeon, who wrote about how to fix 'imperfections' in your breasts.
Now look Boobs, it's time for me to fess up. At one point, you were so underwhelming I half-heartedly considered having surgery to give you a boost. I know, I know, Et Tu Brutus indeed.
But when I came across this article, it wasn't necessarily about size, but it was about a number of things from a little bit of sagging to oversized nipples. The whole point of it was about how to get the perfect breasts.
What I realised, is that you aren't perfect. But you're not meant to be. You didn't come from a mould, you weren't sculpted out of clay, you were meant to turn out how you turned out.
I can't pinpoint when I stopped feeling bad about you. I mean, I didn't even notice it happening.
I just remember not giving you much thought and then, I thought 'Hey, I actually really like you. Thank you for not giving me back ache and well done on standing up to the test of time'.
If I had one bit of advice for my younger self, it would be that what you looked like doesn't matter so much. It definitely shouldn't matter what other people thought of you, especially boys. I wish I hadn't spent so much time believing my self-worth was tied to you.
One thing I am glad for, is that I never went under the knife. A lot of women do go through with it, and more power to them if it makes them happy.
But I don't think that tinkering with you to make you look like everyone else's boobs would have made me happy. After all, you're mine.
And although I will never again fall for the trick again - that my physical attributes can make me happy - you're magnificent and I'm just sorry it took so long for me to recognise that.