My pants are too damned tight. I don’t know why I keep wearing these fucking pants. They’re just too tight, I tell you. When I sit down, my gut (which, while perhaps growing slightly over the last couple years, is not unsightly) spills out over the belt. And it’s so snug around the ass area that I keep getting a wedgie. Now that my lunch has settled, it’s just plain uncomfortable.
I don’t know when I got these things, but it must have been at least five years ago. They are grey jeans. They were once jet black, I’m pretty sure. I admit that I have probably put on a few pounds, but isn’t that the way of life, you’re all young and skinny and, dare I say it, sprightly when you’re a lad, and then you get older and spread out. I don’t know.
I try to work out sometimes, but I really don’t find it all that rewarding. Biking, sit-ups, crunches, weights. I guess I feel good after doing it, but as with EVERYTHING ELSE in my life, I find it hard to get motivated. Am I going to end up fifty years old, no money with a big ol’ gut hanging out there? Maybe.
Do I have it too easy? Is that the case? Where I’ve never really truly been afraid (for more than a couple days) about being able to afford to eat or pay the rent? Am I complacent? I have never had to walk ten miles to school in the snow. I would have remembered something like that. But didn’t our parents do that? Actually no. They had buses. But our grandparents, maybe? Well, so fucking what? Now they’re old and falling apart. That happens to everybody whether you were out plowing the fields by hand or inside playing Nintendo.
Dammit, these fucking pants are driving me nuts. And crushing my nuts. Why the hell would I wear these pants? These pants do not fit. This much is obvious. What was running through my head this morning? “Oh, look, the black jeans. Oooh, yeah, a little snug, aren’t they? That’s okay. They’ll be fine.” Wrong, bucko!!! These are too damned tight. I’m getting creases in my flesh from the band of my boxers. Aaaarrrggghhh.
