Detrius

Office-work has been exploding ungracefully in my face this week, leaving me feeling rather as if a moderately large felled tree has rolled me over. Dissertation, can you hear me? I promise we can get together this weekend. We'll have a lovely time! Dinner and a show and lots of cuddling. Just you and me! It will be dreamy. But right now my brain is made of goo. Mentally impotent, I'm afraid, that's me.

In between working and groaning like the giant pussybaby that I am, I think about pants, and how there do not seem to be very many nice ones. I want pants that fit me and curve to accomodate my thighs without being all saggy in the ass, pants that do not have stupid front pockets that look okay when there are no legs inside them but go kerbloinging out to make you look stupid when there are. I want them to have a 30- or 31-inch inseam, not some ankle-bone-showing 28-inch inadequacy or the fucking THIRTY FOUR INCHES that seems to be standard in certain circles, certain circles that hate me and my dwarfish ilk. I'd like them to be machine-washable as well. If I found some pants like this, I would like them to come in more than one color that was neither pale nor navy.

Ha ha.

It seems, too, that there are no good plain, smooth, non-cashmere pullover women's sweaters available for sale anywhere on earth, in part because retail believes it to be spring, but also because someone decided that cheap cashmere was the only thing any of us could possibly want in a sweater.

Oh well, I won't need pants and sweaters when I'm reincarnated as the beloved and cosseted pet of gentle space aliens who delight in plying me with lattes and good novels. I'll be covered in sleek black fur, and it will look divine.