When the Whip Comes Down
Yesterday, flush with excitement at the prospect of the return of glorious golden summer, I went exploring in the remotest reaches of my closet for something that would decently cover me while allowing adequate ventilation in the unseasonably warm, July-esque weather of the metropolis. A skirt, a dress, even, Lord forgive me, a pair of shorts. Anything but jeans and boots.
The quest for footwear went quite well. After all, sandals always fit and it would be disingenuous of me to say my shoe collection is in any way lacking. My efforts to locate suitable daywear, however, were not crowned with similar success, and as I do every year, I wondered at the remarkable shrinkage that results when off-season garments sit around in the dark for several months. I’m inclined to blame the moths, but in truth, it’s those bastards Ben and Jerry and their asshole buddies at the Cupcake Cafe whose filthy chocolate fingerprints are all over this disaster, or more correctly, my ass and thighs. And so, once again, it’s back to the nutritional purgatory of the summer diet. This year, however, I’m dragging you along with me.