From a distance or at a quick glance it looks like I wrote (typed) Things I Hate: Jesus. As if I weren’t going to hell already… I know I am not alone in this despise / disdain / strong detest for the pants that are somehow incorporated into every country song, usually followed by the words barefoot / beer / truck.

For some dumbass reason unknown to my fifth grade level of intelligence (about the time my stunning good looks peaked as well) I passed on seeing The Fast and the Furious 5 with my family and opted to go through my closet and try on all my jeans. Sober. I thought that finishing off the fifth of Absolute Vanilla I have hidden behind my nightstand stereo left from my summer before I started college would bloat me. Reflecting on my series of poor unrelated dick decisions I wish I did indeed take a knee and chug that frosted glass bottle. At least then I could blame it on the a-a-a-a-al-cohol, for my junior’s size Delias jorts being a little (and by a little I mean a lot) bit snug around my midsection / lowersection / overall section and general body shape.

Thank GOD I went to a private catholic all girls high school because that uniform prevented me from ever wearing my boyfriend fit / stone wash / bleach / distressed / high waisted jeans out in public. (Yes, I still have my uniform. No, I will not wear it for you.) Stores should not ever be allowed to make the style jeans I owned, ever again. That’s like, total social suicide major girlfriend. Why I thought I could pull those horrid jeans off, I will never know. Furthermore why I purchased the LONG option of jeans is beyond me. I am 5’6”. No one who is my height needs to buy long jeans. Knowing middle school me I probably refused to buy “regular” jeans insisting that nothing about my personality / existence was regular. I thought that regular jeans were like getting a B on a test, just average, just existing. FIND THE MEANING IN EVERYTHING KELLYANN. I blame Stacie Orrico’s “Theres Gotta be More to Life (than chasing down every temporary high)” song for the inner narrated nagging in the back of my head (you know the voice, the one you think your voice sounds like. The voice that convinces us we can all sing) that everything I do has to have substantial purpose in my life- because this isn’t just a grilled cheese sandwich. Add articles to everything you do / say / eat / buy. This is *the* day, *the* dress, *the* handle* that will change my life FOR. EV. ER. It’s putting this kind of pressure on yourself that leads to you spending long single nights alone trying on jeans. Pregame everything.

Besides my love for everything distressed and paint splattered, look how artsy I am, I could fully restock the entire Salvation Army denim bottoms area. I have every junior jean size from a 3/4 to a 9/10. Go a size up to look a size smaller! Oh the self induced brainwashing we perform in the ever failing attempt to convince ourselves that a number is indeed, just a number. Just do 30 minutes of cardio a day and drink mostly water / eat veggies / low fat / sell your soul to the devil! How are us gings supposed to get skinny with no soul to bargain? Hey, so… yeah, about that whole soul thing, I don’t have that. But could I offer you the complete Gilmore Girls Series on DVD? I am trying to watch my weight here, and the only thing I can see is it going up.

I still see no harm in ordering pajama jeans. THEY ARE LIKE FLARED JEGGINGS. I am always looking for a chance to sleep comfortably in what I plan on wearing the next day. On the first day God made Uggs, slippers you can wear outside, and on the next day He made Pajama Jeans. Then he raged for the rest of the Earth’s Welcome Week. You think He thought of the platypus sober? Bitch, please.

Divine being of another religion: Bet you can’t create a semi-aquatic mammal God!

God: Weird, cus I will.