I'm taking you on a journey through your imagination.
My pants. What, the fuck, my friends, is up with my pants.
"Pants," i say to my pants, "I paid so much for you. I thought you were great pants. Why now this? Why?"
And my pants, they look at me, a little sheepishly, but they don't respond. Damn pants.
What I mean, reader, is that my pants do not fit. Nay! No; it is not that they don't fit. They do fit. They do fit, so long as I do not move.
Do not be fooled! Tis not vanity, my friends, which pisses me off as much as discomfort, for my Pants and my Shirts, they are in collusion - yes! Even to this day, they work side by side to cleverly, subtly, inch by inch, but inexorably reveal the itty bittiest but somehow most glaringly embarrassing Pocket of Pudge which rests betwixt me waist and me groin. My pants slide down, my shirt scoots up, with every step, inching, gradually, gradually, till from nowhere - MUFFIN TOP OF DOOM peeks out over otherwise fitting pants.
And it is not just the flab, dear friends! The worst fashion mistake is not one of color or style; it be fit. Be your clothes not fitting, the finest of wares will look stupid and silly on your now awkward looking frame. Cheap clothes that go on good and ride right raise no suspicions as to your competence, taste, or mental stability. Adults with guts hanging out are crazy and wearing sweatpants, our minds tell us, crazy old women at bus stops telling strangers about their grown children as if they were still wee, hawking flowers for booze munny.
So now it is not that I just am highlighting what is honestly one of my few True Fat spots, (I know i am not Fat Fat, I HAVE fat, but I am at peace with it, but for when it DOES THIS WITH MY PANTS,) and that I feel fat, but I also look fundamentally retarded. Who can't dress themselves? Children, old people and retards.
I told it to my mother as such: when I walk into a room, I feel like the caricature of whatever I see myself as. When I walk into a room feeling my pants constantly riding down no matter how much i pull them up, no matter what belt I wear, and my gut exposed, I feel like a fat little german kid with a lollipop in liederhosen tottering into a room with my little outie belly button peeking out beneath my shirt and above my little green Highlander pants, a feather in my cap, candy smeared on my face, my fat little knees dissapearing into the cookie dough of my chunky white legs. THIS is what I see in my mind's eye when I walk into a room.
If this is not enough for you, who should imagine this clearly now if you have not already and guffaw, then know this: upon my belly likes one, exactly ONE, long, black belly button hair. It lies amidst short, fine blonde hairs, which is what resides on most of my body. But, for reasons of hilarity beyond my own comprehension - and yes i pluck it, it always comes back - you must now imagine this fat, blonde little german with a single, wiry, pube-looking hair sticking out from the little roll of fat.
And this, friends, is how I see myself today.
Also: I chopped up and ruined a pair of $80 men's slacks at work and was sent home for the day. I'll be at the gym.
"Pants," i say to my pants, "I paid so much for you. I thought you were great pants. Why now this? Why?"
And my pants, they look at me, a little sheepishly, but they don't respond. Damn pants.
What I mean, reader, is that my pants do not fit. Nay! No; it is not that they don't fit. They do fit. They do fit, so long as I do not move.
Do not be fooled! Tis not vanity, my friends, which pisses me off as much as discomfort, for my Pants and my Shirts, they are in collusion - yes! Even to this day, they work side by side to cleverly, subtly, inch by inch, but inexorably reveal the itty bittiest but somehow most glaringly embarrassing Pocket of Pudge which rests betwixt me waist and me groin. My pants slide down, my shirt scoots up, with every step, inching, gradually, gradually, till from nowhere - MUFFIN TOP OF DOOM peeks out over otherwise fitting pants.
And it is not just the flab, dear friends! The worst fashion mistake is not one of color or style; it be fit. Be your clothes not fitting, the finest of wares will look stupid and silly on your now awkward looking frame. Cheap clothes that go on good and ride right raise no suspicions as to your competence, taste, or mental stability. Adults with guts hanging out are crazy and wearing sweatpants, our minds tell us, crazy old women at bus stops telling strangers about their grown children as if they were still wee, hawking flowers for booze munny.
So now it is not that I just am highlighting what is honestly one of my few True Fat spots, (I know i am not Fat Fat, I HAVE fat, but I am at peace with it, but for when it DOES THIS WITH MY PANTS,) and that I feel fat, but I also look fundamentally retarded. Who can't dress themselves? Children, old people and retards.
I told it to my mother as such: when I walk into a room, I feel like the caricature of whatever I see myself as. When I walk into a room feeling my pants constantly riding down no matter how much i pull them up, no matter what belt I wear, and my gut exposed, I feel like a fat little german kid with a lollipop in liederhosen tottering into a room with my little outie belly button peeking out beneath my shirt and above my little green Highlander pants, a feather in my cap, candy smeared on my face, my fat little knees dissapearing into the cookie dough of my chunky white legs. THIS is what I see in my mind's eye when I walk into a room.
If this is not enough for you, who should imagine this clearly now if you have not already and guffaw, then know this: upon my belly likes one, exactly ONE, long, black belly button hair. It lies amidst short, fine blonde hairs, which is what resides on most of my body. But, for reasons of hilarity beyond my own comprehension - and yes i pluck it, it always comes back - you must now imagine this fat, blonde little german with a single, wiry, pube-looking hair sticking out from the little roll of fat.
And this, friends, is how I see myself today.
Also: I chopped up and ruined a pair of $80 men's slacks at work and was sent home for the day. I'll be at the gym.