You are a janitor at a high-end gym and about a year after getting the job you got the idea to start breaking into women’s lockers and stealing their dirty underwear.
“Dirty rich lady underwear,” you’ll mutter today as the flames rise. “Dirty rich lady underwear casting a goddamn spell.”
At first it was just a goof, kind of like stealing office supplies or sneaking Danish from a catered plate for a meeting you aren’t attending. But soon it became an addiction.
“You took hold of me,” you’ll growl as the lace fringe turns to ash. “Let me think I was in control, but you held all the cards.”
Your home has been overrun with dirty women’s underwear, hundreds of pairs stuffed into desk drawers and kitchen cabinets and old tube TV casings. You slept on it as your bed. You dried yourself with it after your bath. You sat under it like a blanket let it keep you warm while you read your magazines on the papasan chair. You piled it up so that it looked like a person and you’d talk to it about people in your life who betrayed your trust.
“I’m done with ladies’ panties. Time to be all I can be!” you’ll shout at the silk and the cotton and the string-hips and printed briefs. “Life begins at 56.”
The fire will grow too hot to sit near. Get out of your house, turn your back on it and walk away slow as the underwear blaze swallows your home whole. Way to turn over a new leaf on your 56th birthday.
Happy Set All The Women’s Underwear On Fire And Walk Away Slow Day!
