t-rex bones
I have a bone to pick. I can't decide who I necessarily want to pick it with, but I hope it wouldn't be too much to be able to find someone with a stick a little more substantial than a toothpick. And I suppose I wouldn't have any complaints if I decided to run around naked, but even though I live in a free country, I think that sort of freedom has its limits. So, since that isn't an option, and since I have to buy clothes every now and again, this T-Rex femur of mine continues to grow. And grow. And grow. AND GROW. And I don't think I can carry it around much longer without crushing some fingers, toes, and/or esophagi.
I hate the eighties. I loathe it. I detest the fashions. I despise the jeggings and the skinny jeans, the gauchos and the sweater dresses, the prego shirts and the pants that slide on only after scrubbing your thighs with a combination of crisco and baby oil. I hate it. I hate it all.
Maybe this bone of mine comes from the fact that I am not shaped for the eighties. I won't go into the specifics (honestly, who in their right mind would want to hear about my rectangularish torso, webbed feet, and forest of leg hair? I'm just jesting (okay, maybe with the last two. The first one is another story for another day with another femur). Anyways...). Fact of the matter is, the eighties don't flatter me at all. And because of that, I am offended.
I've thought about going on a nudist strike, but I'm pretty sure that jailbird jumpsuits wouldn't flatter my figure any more than a knitted sweater-vest. For now, I'm going to bite my lip and gnaw on my femur. Maybe someday someone in the fashion industry will get the hint and bring the Roaring Twenties back with a vengeance. Then maybe, just maybe, all depending on whether or not the planets align right, I will actually look decent and in vogue.
Until then, I'll do my best to grin and not grimace. I suppose I could strive to adapt my body to the eighties, but by the time I do, I'm pretty sure I will be decades late.
So, smile! And thanks for the bone! This one's for you, Rexie.
I hate the eighties. I loathe it. I detest the fashions. I despise the jeggings and the skinny jeans, the gauchos and the sweater dresses, the prego shirts and the pants that slide on only after scrubbing your thighs with a combination of crisco and baby oil. I hate it. I hate it all.
Maybe this bone of mine comes from the fact that I am not shaped for the eighties. I won't go into the specifics (honestly, who in their right mind would want to hear about my rectangularish torso, webbed feet, and forest of leg hair? I'm just jesting (okay, maybe with the last two. The first one is another story for another day with another femur). Anyways...). Fact of the matter is, the eighties don't flatter me at all. And because of that, I am offended.
I've thought about going on a nudist strike, but I'm pretty sure that jailbird jumpsuits wouldn't flatter my figure any more than a knitted sweater-vest. For now, I'm going to bite my lip and gnaw on my femur. Maybe someday someone in the fashion industry will get the hint and bring the Roaring Twenties back with a vengeance. Then maybe, just maybe, all depending on whether or not the planets align right, I will actually look decent and in vogue.
Until then, I'll do my best to grin and not grimace. I suppose I could strive to adapt my body to the eighties, but by the time I do, I'm pretty sure I will be decades late.
So, smile! And thanks for the bone! This one's for you, Rexie.
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ReplyDeleteI honestly agree. I mean- I thought by now we'd have evolved from the barbaric 80's style and the T-Rex femur days, but noooooo! Blast you T-Rex...
ReplyDelete