Haha. I've never slumpbusted, but this reminded me of something that happened to me. Forgive me if I've told this story before. Right after I graduated college I started dating a very attractive Iranian girl. She was very pretty-- well-proportioned, lovely Persian complexion, dark eyes. Fantastic. There was just one little thing. She had three rather long hairs next to her right nipple. I'm not really the kind of guy to say anything about something like that, especially since I'm not the most hairless mofo around. I mean, the way I looked at it, I was sleeping with a very smart, funny, beautiful woman. What's there to complain about? THREE HAIRS. THAT'S WHAT. I ALREADY TOLD YOU. Well, as the sheen of newness wore off our relationship, Macbeth's Witches (as they hairs came to be known among my circle of friends) started to become a bit of a buzzkill. And the frustrating thing was how easily the problem could be rectified. Finally, one day I decided to sack up and address the situation. I would do it tactfully, gracefully, and without a hint of judgment or condemnation. That night, we were lying there, and just as I'm poised to broach the subject, she says, "You know what I like about you, Seth?" This is a question that actually really does fascinate me. What DO women like about me? So I said no. Her response--and I'm not making this up-- was the most ill-timed flattery in the annals of mankind. "You're just a good guy," she said. "You don't complain or nitpick. You just accept things the way they are." Clearly my plan was shot to hell right there. So I just muttered an "Aww shucks, Baby" kind of response and nuzzled closer, hoping to arrange our bodies so The Triad of Evil were beyond the scope of even my peripheral vision. To my surprise, though, she then re-opened the possibility of booby-hair conversation. "I mean, I don't know if you've noticed," she said, "but I have some hairs on my breast. And you've never said a thing." What? Hairs? On your breast? Why you do! "My last boyfriend complained about it all the time. He even asked me to pluck them," she said. I nuzzled closer. "Bastard," I whispered. "But, uh, out of curiosity, what did you say. Not that I care. Or anything." And know what she said? "I'll pluck those hairs when you get a bigger D***." Ouch. We dated for five more months, and I never said a word about those hairs.