Jolie used her standing as a worldwide "sex symbol" to debunk the myth that women become any less beautiful, feminine or sexy when they lose their breasts.

Bras in my size are cheerfully doodled over with hearts, flowers and little cupcakes that would inspire Katy Perry to write a hit song right there in the dressing room. My breasts are offended. They know what they are and they are not part of a Fisher Price play set.

Girls with "girls" like mine need a bra that is a workhorse and attractive. Think about how beautiful those Budweiser Clydesdales are; they can haul a lot, but they look good doing it. And don't even get me started on the prices you charge!

To this day, I wonder about my history teacher's lack of response to my affront. Did she think coming to my breasts' defense would diminish her authority? Call attention to her own buxom body? Or was she trying to deflate the power of public teasing by refusing to acknowledge it?

My breasts didn't define me before they were removed. My breasts don't define me now. But every scar and imperfection does serve as a daily reminder of the strong, unstoppable force I am.

Why are heterosexual men so fascinated by women's breasts that we sometimes act as if the breasts are the seat of the soul?

One of the perks of writing about sex is that when you disclose this information at cocktail parties, people tend to confess scandalous tidbits, and in this case, very useful information.

Let's stop thinking about breasts in terms of sin, immorality and bimbo-ism.