Just something.

Sometimes I like to pretend like I'm a good reader. Lately people at work have been bringing in books on CD. Boredom will naturally bring me to use these books as time fillers. Because of this I can feel like I'm not pretending.
I thought these books were a good thing. I thought of how good for my brain they must be. But all good things must come to an end. I've found a side effect they don't warn you about on the CD case.
These books have made my life the most dramatic, long and confusing novel ever written.
Examples.
At work I grap my pen I hear myself think, "As she reached for the pen to mark the last credit card on the list she found herself thinking back to her not so distant childhood. A look comes across her face, a longing in her heart. She missed Ol'Bessy."
I'm suddenly the narrator of everything.
And when I get home and its a little dark,
"The creaking of the old house sent a chill down my spine. I flip on the light, but even the bright yellow couldn't eliminate the feeling of looming dread."
Eventually it becomes just a little too much. I start to have that same feeling of pissed that I get when I have a Christmas or an old twangy country song stuck in my head.
I blame my imagination for my lack of literary genius.

To speak ill of others is a dishonest way of praising ourselves. ~Will Durant

Good Bye size 4-6 jeans

"I wont miss you, I'll miss what I thought you were."

We knew all each others secrets. Dark wash to hide slight over weight, straight leg to make me look taller, and stretch jeans a never. We were a match made in china.

Then came the agruements that I was putting on a little weight. You acusing me of not being able to breathe when I sit down, unbuttoning for relief. Me acusing you of not being flexable enough.

I've denyed it too long, and it seems everyone knows. I've worn my heart on my pant leg and exposed myself for the world to see my rejection from you. The way you push me from your waist band. You'll never change, but I must.

Its not like I didn't see it coming. The last few weeks I've wondered every morning what happened last night and will you still hold on. If my junk can still fit in your trunk.

I will have fries with my shake and my butt will frown in DI mom jeans, tappered and faded.

I promise myself to stop the longing looks as I walk past the girls jeans to the dark, humid and large section. Were the lights flicker, the salesmen are scarce and the price tags give me papercutts.

Sometimes the fabric you really need is the one you didn’t think you wanted.

Hello sweat pants.