Last weekend, you and I did our laundry. I was the filmy troll with the enormous breasts. You were the cute thing with the glossy hair and the pink-trimmed sneakers. I give you credit, girl. You've got a great ass. But I still wouldn't want to be you - and it's not (only) because I am the one with the graduate degree and the additional one (or two) decades of rich, meaningful, soul-refining life experience.
I wouldn't want to be you, neighbor, because I know for a personal fact that no matter how well your week went, it was, in fact, a disaster. I know this because while your ass may be cute, it is not......
Well. I think you know.
Let me turn now to the painful subject of your laundry error. You hastily extracted your garments from the dryer without ensuring that the drum was empty. Otherwise, how could I have placed my own garments in that same dryer, hit the 40 minute low heat cycle, and six hours later extracted the wonder of your pants?
True, the error is half mine. I did not carefully examine the dryer to ensure that it was unoccupied. I did not think to clean the lint trap or add a dryer sheet, either. I, like you, was in a hurry. I am also at fault for not noticing, as I was folding my garments last weekend, that the inky black wonderous sweatpants with the extra perfecty-perfect waistband and the flattering drape were not in fact my all time favorite DKNY track pants. Your pants and my pants are similar. Just different. I folded your pants and put them in my closet. Right next to my other track-y sweat pant-y stretchy clothes. (Shut up).
Only this morning, a week later, when I reached into the stretchy pants pile and unfolded your wondrously comfortable pants - and applied them to my own ass - did I realize my error. Unfortunately for you, I also discovered that you are the owner of the dearest, bestest, coziest, cutest sweatpants ever blessed by Mary, Virgin Mother of God and Patroness of House-Pants.* I have never, ever in the history of gaining and losing the same ten pounds, ever felt the way I feel about this pair of pants.
To put it plainly, I am in love. And no, this is not drunken late night bar sniffed a little something can I take a hit off that sure you can grab my ass infatuation. Neighbor, this is solid, true, cold light of six in the morning just out of the shower uncaffeinated devotion. I am not crushing on your pants. I am in love.
I am right now, as we speak, wiggling around at my desk in their voluminous, fluffy, coziness.
I want these pants.
Now, technically, neighbor, I have your pants. See above re: wiggling.
What is bothering me, of course, is that I do not own your pants. I realize that it is trashy and in poor taste and maybe even a little bit hygienically ill-advised to even make the suggestion to follow herewith, but neighbor, I must own these pants. It is not enough to simply have them for a day. I want to marry them and wear them forever and ever and ever. Amen.
If you wish to enter into negotiations with me regarding the formal unification of me and your pants, please see the doorman. To prove your title, please identify the designer, the size, and the location and circumference of the one barely even noticeable hole. If you pass security clearance, the door man will give you my apartment number and you may visit me and your pants at your leisure. I will likely be wearing your pants when you arrive, which makes your bargaining position both better and worse.
I look forward to your visit.
(You are never getting these pants back).