R.I.P. my favorite work pants.

You were comfy, cunty, and utilitarian.

You were hot, you looked good, I was proud to serve it.

But my thighs demand another victim. Although strong you held for over a year of near-constant demands, you have become dust as we all eventually shall.

My legs, of which know no mercy, of which contain no connection to the softness of my heart, of which a trail of corpses they are responsible for lay waste in the annals of time, push me forward.

I am but a servant to them, as are many, and as such I must let you go, as beloved as you are, like many beloved pants before you.

Goodbye, my favorite work pants.

You were comfy, cunty, and utilitarian.

You were hot, you looked good.

And I was proud to serve it.