You need to know that I've been thought of as classy and stylish and rather well put together. I was used to being lusted after until "she" came along and ended it all, from complete freedom to utter insubordination in the ca-ching of a cash register. I was snatched from my home and forced to live in a Florida condo. OK, so the condo was pretty nice but I was frequently stuffed in a dark, cramped place with the other kidnap victims. Pretty brutal treatment after being so admired and displayed.
It was apparent she was extremely fond of me because wherever she went, so did I. I accompanied her to the mall, to restaurants, sporting events and walks in the park. That part of it was fun, I must admit. My real problems began the day she went on a donut binge. She bought a dozen frosted, creme filled pastries and ate every single one of them. Then she started in on fast food restaurants, consuming burgers, fries, Cokes, burritos and whatever else she found irresistible. My goodness, she could eat.
Days turned into weeks and I began to suffer, feeling stretched to my limit and I constantly worried about falling apart. I was a nervous wreck! If a pair of jeans ever needed Xanax, it was me! My seams started to pull apart. My zipper strained with all her tugs and pulls and eventually got stuck. I wound up in a pile of abused clothing in the back of her closet, neglected.
So here I am, telling you my story and imploring you to help. I was born to be loved and cared for and I've wound up discarded and forlorn. There must be something you can do to bring "her" to her senses. I doubt whether I could ever slide over her hips again. I don't think her thighs were meant for the confines of anyone like me.
More than likely, you didn't know a pair of jeans could write a blog post. But stranger things have happened! So tell me, please, what should I do? Oh, and before you go, I promised I would mention that too small pair of jeans in YOUR closet...