Congratulations Big Titty Programmer!

Video games are well known for two things: violence and juvenile portrayals of what gamers call the ladies in a chorus of too low, incredibly creepy voices.  The violence is easy enough, you can get that shit anywhere, but the strange sexual dynamic of video games is a truly surreal thing, an objectification that combines commoditization, humiliation, empowerment, forced intimacy, and damseldom into one ubertrope that rules the subconscious of thousands, nay millions of young men and women.  It takes a particular hand to craft these archetypes of feminine oddity, and that hand, my friend, is you.

You've been making the polygons that make ladies boobies big for as long as you can remember.  Some say you didn't exist at all before Tomb Raider emerged and press ganged you into being.  No one knows for sure if it's true, because you can't remember where you were born, or anything from before 1996.  If you were any less adept at your chosen profession, you'd have long since been cast out into the cold, uncaring world, left homeless on the street.  Instead you live in a mansion alone, with only a pack of wild dogs you had imported from Namibia for company.

A few weeks ago you started an internet dating profile out of a sense of crippling loneliness, and today, after many hours of browsing, chatting and generally being roundabout about things, you're going to, for the first time in your life, meet a woman in a non-work capacity.

You'll sit down from the table across from her and, staring at her chest, introduce yourself.

"Hello," you'll say.

She'll laugh, a tittering sound.

"Aw," she'll say.  "My eyes are up here, dickhead."

Your eyes will flit from her chest to her face, back to her chest, up to her face, before you'll turn bright red and stammer.

"S-s-sorry..."

She'll look at you, puzzled for a moment, before spitting out:

"Are you retarded?"

You'll shake your head avidly, like a dog, lending little credence to your denial.

"Sorry.  Pretty girl.  Don't get out much."  You'll shrug at yourself.  "You know how it is."

She'll open her mouth to reply, then close it, then open it again.

"Am I the first fucking woman you've ever met or something?"

She'll already be moving to leave, standing up in her seat, when she sees your avid nodding, your gaze now focused on her half-standing lap.  She'll pause there, taking you in, eyes soaking up your clothes, your hair, your skin, so pale.  Her fingers will drum the back of her chair.  You'll want to explain things to her, tell her what you do, why this is so hard for you, why seeing actual breasts is distressing for you, but you'll be completely unable to do so, unable to speak, to move, to make a sign of any kind.  After an eternity of standing in the middle space of her chair she'll sit down, put on a cardigan to cover her shoulders and cleavage, and pick up the wine list.

"Well shit," she'll mutter into the table.  "Do you drink?"

Congratulations Big Titty Programmer!