Oh, my glorious skull pants. I got you for Halloween 5 years ago, and you have been a loving and fluffy friend through all of our travels. You made frightened parents pull their children closer in grocery stores, you braved the windy inclemency that is Wellington, you gladly stayed in my presence for weeks at a time, never claiming to be dirty or neglected, though you were. With your black background and skully foreground, complete with glowing red eyes, you brought joy into the hearts of many [people with mental disorders]. But now, you rip at the slightest touch. Just the other day I accidentally stuck my big toe through your threads, so that one of your skulls burst open as if someone chose to detonate an M-80 inside of it. And still your eyes follow me, some strange Mona Lisa-esque gaze that makes me want to shoot Leonardo Da Vinci… were he still alive. But I can’t sew you back together any more. You are starting to look like some emo high school child’s desperate plea for attention, in the form of bad stitching and holey knees. That’s really not the image I want to portray.
And it’s cold. I need pants that are in one piece, whole in body, mind, and spirit. I can’t deal with the drafts. I’ve worn you quite literally ragged – but now it’s time to say goodbye. We had a good run, a good jog, a good walk, and an amazing sleep. Tonight will be the last one. You’re going in the trash tomorrow. Make friends, play nice, decompose, and maybe I’ll see you again some day. Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.
