I woke up this morning wearing a long sleeved shirt brandishing the 80's iconic band, The Misfits. On my bra-less chest, their well known skull logo stares at the world- one eye socket more prominent and lower than the other because my tits are lopsided. (Think of it as having a variety...) Moving on. My genetic curiosity is ruining the rebellious nature of the shirt. Instead of making a two year old want to shit it's pants, thanks to titty1 and titty2, my shirt has become an optical illusion.
I think the coolest thing about this shirt (which I have in my possession only because I stole it from a family member when I was looking for lost treasure in their closet) are the sleeves. The sleeves have fake bones painted on them in white. Just in case I forget, I can look at my shirt and see right through to my humerus, radius, and ulna. Who thinks of this shit?
Do I even listen to this band? No. I have in the past, but the only Manny to rock my world is good old Barry Manilo; the same one that I named my pet turtle (who was later ripped to shreds by a hawk in California) after. Give me a moment...
What's even more peculiar than what I covered my chest with last night is what I covered my ass with. I woke up in roleplay panties that I purchased from an S and M shop in Manha... Mancrappen. The panties are black tight full bottoms with white frillies in the back. I sometimes used to use them for my maid outfit at work. Now? They lay at the bottom of my my box of work clothing, forgotten like orphans. Since I don't utilize underwear in the average American fashion, they find themselves in my 'useless as shit' clothing pile.
If I had a normal pair of underwear, i wouldn't have had to chose between rhinestone bedazzled g-strings, retro 1940's style bloomers and last nite's little number. And MAYBE if I put my laundry in the dryer instead of being zombified to the telly, I would have worn a "normal" outfit to bed; my Face-rapers inc. t-shirt and my 'monkeys throwing snowballs at each other' boxers.
