After several months of internal debate, I've come to realize that this thing between us is never going to work out, Skinny Jeans. I've known it all along really, but now I'm finally ready to admit it to myself - and to you. And you know what else? I blamed myself. I came here prepared to take responsibility for our failure. If only I could stop eating all those bagels, you might look better on me, you know what I mean? But now that I'm here, I'm just going to say it: It's not me, Skinny Jeans. It's you.
You're kind of skeevy. You molest my thighs in public. You caress my upper knees in ways that make me feel uncomfortable. At first, I tried to tell myself that it was just because you thought I was so attractive. I hoped that your blatant and lascivious affection for my calves would convince other people that I was highly desirable. But then I noticed that you routinely betray me at the worst possible moments; flaunting my butt crack to the neighbors whenever I have to bend down to pick something up and refusing to hold my soft mom-belly in, even for just a few minutes while someone tries to take my picture. Would it kill you to help me out here a little? Nope, it's just all about you, isn't it, Skinny Jeans.
Because you think you are so cool, don't you? I know your ego is totally out of control because everyone tells you that you are the best. All my friends say you are a real catch and I'm lucky to have you, but they are in denial and covering for their own unsatisfying relationships with their Skinny Jeans. Well, I don't even care any more. Because really, this is just another iteration of that classic story about women and their self-destructive relationships with denim. As a whole, we just can't seem to avoid the lure of those bad boys.
But I'm pulling the wool from my eyes. I know in my heart of hearts that, if this were a relationship worth investing another hundred-and-something dollars in, you would support me. You would care more about MY happiness. If I had more self-respect I would least make you buy me dinner before I let you squeeze my bum like that while I'm trying to walk down the street! But no, you would never buy me dinner. Instead, you give me the stink eye from under the table while I eat and say cruel things to me like, "Pie? Really? Do you honestly think that's wise considering you just ate seconds of mac and cheese?" That hurts, Skinny Jeans. I don't need you tearing me down like this anymore.
So I'm throwing you out. It's over, Skinny Jeans. Go find some other poor self-conscious girl to fondle. I'm not going to take your abuse any longer. I'm going to go find myself a nice, cozy pair of boot-cut stretchy corduroys in a dark, flattering color that doesn't attract so much attention. A pair of pants that loves me just the way I am. From here on out, I'm going to be good to myself, and I'm going to demand that my trousers do the same. And I'm having some pie, goddammit.