I Call This Look…
Poor Freelance Writer
Poor Freelance Writer forgets to put on pants. Almost every day. She figures, why do I need to put on pants? I never leave the house. She would like to venture out into the world, but she’s glued to the mailbox most days, waiting, like a goddamn dog, for the mail carrier to come.
Pajamas, like the ones featured today, are her most common look. Or something like pajamas. She can’t actually remember the last time she wore matching night clothes (or bra and underwear, for that matter). She’s pretty sure she sleeps in holey Old Navy pants from her college days, and a random t-shirt that her boyfriend brought back from a trip.
Her boyfriend. How has he not left her yet? she wonders. When he comes home from work, how does he feel when he sees his girlfriend sitting in a pile of White Cheddar Cheez-Its, a computer nearby, and Purple Rain playing on the TV? This is how he feels: Dammit. Is she watching Purple Rain again? How many times can she watch Purple Rain? She’ll never be able to dance like Prince, but he’s too afraid to tell her. He’s afraid this truth will crack her already fragile structure — a structure weakened by years of working from home and watching the feral cats play outside her window.
What day is it? she often asks him. It’s the day to put on your pants, he replies.He will always be there for her, brushing off the fine layer of white cheese dust from her pajamas, walking her upstairs and reminding her that she owns two pairs of jeans. See those there? Those belong to you, he says. She stares at them with wonderment, a distant memory of laughing and interacting with people enters and leaves her mind. Did I wear those once? she asks.
Yes, yes you did.
