Oh hey everyone. I am wondering, what is your opinion on my new pants?

These are them. Pictured above.

Ha, you fool, I am lying. Not about those being my pants. They are totally my pants. I am lying about wanting your opinion on my pants.

I feel like the weird thing about wearing an item of clothing like my pants is that the very fact that you would wear them should imply to everyone that you unequivocally do not give a single fuck what the other people of the world think about your pants; but for some reason, they are actually opinion magnets. Opinions literally fly through the atmosphere and stick themselves onto my pants.

“Hey! Cool pants!”
“Why don’t you go referee something, in your referee pants!”
“ERMAGERD ER LERVE YER PERRRRNTS!!”

You guys, I am sick of hearing your opinions on my muh’ fuckin pants.

(*The word pants gets pretty weird after you type it three or four times, and like, wants you to type it more (?)

I think opinions, in general, are best kept to yourself, unless you are specifically asked for one. Or in the context of a debate. Or, if you are like me and always have the right opinion. You’ll know if that’s the case, because obviously you are firm believer that:  Eating sliced cucumber with some cheese and crackers is always the solution to your hunger related problems,  Avril Lavigne and Chad Kroeger are actually the same alien, that there is no such thing as “too much” green tea, and that my boyfriend could beat up your boyfriend, and also he’s way hotter.

I’m kidding about that last part.

Because if I ever hear any of youse guys expressing the completely correct opinion that my boyfriend is smoking hot, I’ll straight up strangle you for a few seconds and then probably, I don’t know, curb stomp you. Because I’m a Scorpio and that means nobody else can talk like that about my kool-aid. Shhh.. it’s okay baby, let’s just get you home, away from all these nasty perverts. *glares aggressively at you*

Okay- MAYBE- that’s a slight exaggeration. I wouldn’t curb stomp you because the thought of breaking out someone’s teeth on concrete makes me feel weird, and to be honest, I can’t even really blame you; like my pants, he is an eyeball magnet.

In fact, that’s the real reason I am wearing these pants. To distract you all from staring at him.

Look at my pants. LOOK AT THEM.

Hah. No. The truth is I’m not really sure what compelled my to buy these pants, but what I do know is that I feel like a really rock and roll version of a character from the Nightmare Before Christmas when I wear them. I like that feeling. And if feeling like a musically inclined animated monster is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.

I can get very attached to certain items of clothing all because they make me feel a certain way. When this happens, I generally try to not wear the item too often- kind of like I want to preserve its special magic. I give these items names. Obviously, these are “the pants.” Yes, I have other pants, but none of them warrant being called “the.” You probably don’t own a single pair of pants that you would put a “the” in front of, but if and when you ever do, you’ll know. Of course there is also “green dress,” the dress I got seven years ago at Mintage that spawned my freakishly unholy vintage dress collection. I only wear it once or twice in the whole summer, because I live in fear of it falling apart- and even still, it shows wear to the close observer. Alas!

I think items like green dress, because they are timeless, will never change for me, and I will want them to last forever. But the pants will probably not hold the same longevity. Inevitably, with certain favourite articles of mine, there comes a time when “it” happens. I don’t know exactly what; but it’s like I’ll put on my favourite shirt, and it will no longer be my favourite. In fact, I will feel like a deranged mutant, as though putting on the shirt actually changed me somehow, into a troll.

It is weird.

In university I got this shirt. It’s lacy, but not sexy lacy- like “pretty” lacy. Whenever I wore this shirt, I felt like a princess. For real. I felt really old timey pretty. It was a good feeling. I think wearing it distinctively changed the way I walk; since then I no longer slouch along like a dying wildebeast, but I glide proudly.
Then all the sudden I dyed my hair red, put the shirt on, and I was the ugliest girl in the world. It sucked.

I dread the day when I no longer feel like a super funkalicious radster in these pants. But for now- keep your opinions to yourself. I can’t hear you over my pants anyways.

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