Houston…. we have jeans!
Seriously. My fine round bottom is swathed in denim as I am writing this.
Bless me father, for I have lost weight… it’s been two years since my last pair of Levis.
So, I essentially haven’t worn jeans in the new millenia. And that is because I refuse to purchase a larger pair. I mean, I have a pair, the pair I have on right now, that used to be my big pair of jeans. You girls know what I’m talking about. You have at least one small pair and one big pair of jeans and life is good or not depending upon which of those two classes of jeans you are wearing. It’s like the Haves and the Have Nots, only in this case, the Haves have too much ass and the Have Nots walk around on the arms of rock stars and star on Ally MacBeal.
I have three or four grades of jeans, actually. In my dresser drawer, there are two pair with tags still on. I had purchased them two months after I came back from England, where I walked all the time and drank a ton of water and lived on fruit and bread. My goal is to get into them by the end of the summer.
Why so much emotion over clothes? In reality, jeans offer an unflinching barometer on the state of your ass. They don’t stretch that much, they don’t move, they just unbutton if you’ve eaten too much. You can’t plead with jeans. You can’t only let jeans see you from your good side or in flattering lighting. There is no soft focus with a pair of jeans. They fit or they squeeze your internal organs until you taste your own liver when you sit down.
That’s jeans right there.
GD Levi Strauss.
So, anyway, I was feeling cocky this morning, so I’m venturing out into the world. And I’m sitting right now and I’ve been told that they actually look a little loose in places. So life is good. I’m feeling good. I’ve been taking a different approach to life, trying to sit in the computer room less and go out and play more. The side effect to this is that you guys get fewer entries. And Starbucks gets fewer of my dollars for highly fattening Mochas. It’s a really good thing that Starbucks Guy is gone, because I’d have issues with that. And I’m trying slowly to ease out of the Diet Coke addiction, as it is basically toxic waste, but I’m replacing it with Dasani so I’m still funding Coca-Cola’s plot for world domination. But I’m ok with that. I’m their bitch and I know it. If only they’d answer my pleas for a new size of Diet Coke that they could call Sack O’Coke, and it could be in a neopyrene sack that one could wear on their back, insulated for optimum frosty bubbly caffeinated goodness.
Somedays, man, I swear if you cut me, I’ll bleed caramel coloring and nutrasweet.
Oh, and we’re getting a TiVo. Probably very dangerous, especially to the Assapalooza 2002 venture. I swear, I’m only going to use it to tape Martha Stewart and the Osbournes. And maybe Buffy.
If only they made a television that was powered by a treadmill, I’d be the thinnest girl in the world, toting my Sack O’Coke around.
Oooh… I just accidentally wrote “sack o’cock”…. freudian much? And also a bit disturbing.
When I eventually go off the deep end, y’all can point to this entry as an example that all of that aspartame and phosphoric acid just isn’t good for your noggin.
