I’m the crotch of your favorite jeans, and I’m about to ruin your day

Hello, again. Although if I’m being honest, a greeting is hardly necessary at this point as we’ve been basically inseparable for quite some time now.

We are nearly one, aren’t we? Bonded by both physical proximity and what I can only hope is years of insufficient laundering. One being, moving through this world, fooling absolutely no one about how hip or cool you are. Well, no one except maybe you.

We really do make quite a pair, you and I. You, one half of our duo, a fleshy sack of unpredictable emotion. And me, your constant, denim companion, trying like hell to hold us together.

I’ve cradled your secrets and treasures, your…burrito fumes, and your phone – and most notably your thighs – for more years than you have fingers. No, really – it’s been that long, which is why what I’m about to tell you shouldn’t be a surprise.

Today when you casually squat down to do something mindless – tie a shoe or pick up a wayward LEGO perhaps, I’m going to rip open like a chasm to Hell and absolutely traumatize the shit out of everyone in eyeshot. 

It will feel sudden, although if you’d taken the time to inspect the inner workings of this operation before carelessly shoving your troll feet into the leg holes five minutes ago, you would have noticed I’ve been stretched thin.

Paper thin, actually. 

Which explains the daylight you would have seen delicately filtering through my threadbare frame had you taken the time to look. And the breeze you would have noticed gently caressing your inner thighs had you slowed down enough yesterday or the day before or the day before that or the day be… you know what? I’ll stop there. 

No need to rub it in, like you sometimes do when you have sauce on your fingers and are too lazy to get a napkin. The cuffs of these pants may smell like the dumpster of a condiment factory, but what’s done is done. 

And so here we are, frozen in a precarious dance. 

You, crouched, gasping in surprise, and me, gaping openly for all to see. A vast crevasse of shame and disappointment. A window into the inner workings of your undergarments, which, if I’m being honest here, could also probably also use an update. 

Where do we go from here? 

If I know you, which, as someone who often leaves their physical imprint upon your flesh long after we part ways, I think I do – I would bet the crumpled-up dollar in the back pocket that you will haphazardly fold me up and shove me in the back of the closet with New White Shirt With A Wine Stain and Sweater You Stupidly Shrunk In The Dryer. 

There, the three of us will eagerly await the next addition to our band of misfits. All of us knowing full well at some point you will pull us out and wonder if miraculously holes will have been mended, stains magically erased, and carelessly shrunken fibers once again returned to their glorious adult-sized glory. 

Parting really is such sweet sorrow, but alas it’s time for us to go our separate ways. Honestly – if you don’t take me off now, this hole will just keep growing and it’s only a matter of time before you’re walking around looking like a B-List boy band member.

I am the crotch of your favorite jeans, and I just ruined your day.

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