|Denim is a fashion stable. But tell us one thing, when you think comfortable, do you really think camel-toe slim-fit jeans?
I’m breaking up with you. Surprised? I was, too. But I’m gonna spare us both the back and forth, the wishful thinking and what-if’s, and serve you the situ upfront. You deserve that much, at least.
Today I spent an entire nine hours in you and, truthfully, I had the shittiest of times. You looked great. Better than great, actually. You looked slamming! And because you looked slamming, I looked slamming! See how that works? We were the dream team. Taking on the world. You uplifted me. (Forreals. My tush has never looked so taut.) We complimented one another. You, somehow, someway, made my T-Rex pins look a little leggier. And, without me, you were empty. It just worked, y’know?
In the words of Danny Zuko: you hurt me real bad. You spent hours unceremoniously wedged up my faff, pronouncing my vagina to the world in a way that I wasn’t entirely comfortable with (mainly because it wasn’t entirely comfortable) and, as a result, I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit trying to discreetly undo the death grip you’ve enforced on my fanny. Do you know how difficult it is listening to Cassandra at work talk about her 5:2 diet, all the while resisting the unyielding urge to excavate (because it would undoubtedly be a dig of archaeological proportions) the camel toe that lay – now plaster-cast in dark denim – where my vagina used to be. Do you even care?
And, somehow, it gets worse. I’m 97% sure you’ve inflicted thrush upon me. THRUSH! All because of the seam-induced perma-wedgie my vulva’s been sporting all day.
I’ll say it again in case you didn’t quite catch it:
Do you have any idea how inconvenient that is? DO YOU EVEN CARE?!
You don’t do you? Well it’s no bother, now, because we’re through. You look fly as fuck, that much is true, but nothing is worth turning your nether-regions into the burny depths of Mount Doom. No amount of double taps or heart-eye emojis could sway me. The only emoji I associate with you is fire, because that is what my hoo-haa is on.
*It’s over. For good this time.
It’s not me. It’s you.*
Scorned (and scorched) former denim devotee í ½í´¥