What the shit is your problem, high-waisted jeans? Why do you insist on overrunning the world only to make anyone older than 15 and heavier than an orange look like they’re pregnant but not quite aware that everyone can tell they are, but in an 80s way, which is, by the way, the worst way to accidentally look pregnant.
Why are you even happening, high-waisted jeans? What happened to your easy-going sister low-rise? Does everyone remember low-rise? She was so kind and forgiving, like an aunt whose birthday you always forget but who never minds and always calls you sweetie. Low-rise and I had an understanding. Low-rise’s biggest crime was muffin tops. Low-rise and I were the kind of friends that notice that you’ve gained weight but DON’T SAY A THING ABOUT IT. More than I can say for you, huh high-waisted? Remember when I tried to put you on last week and you were just like, oh yeah nice try.
Well, here’s what I have to say to you, high-waisted jeans.
Fuck you and the fucking denim horse you rode in on. Fuck you and all the emaciated teenagers who wear you and all the fucking stores that cater to them. Fuck you for making me have mom ass, for mocking my mature figure, for being so fucking uncomfortable that I almost weep in the changing room when I try to see what you’ll be like if I sit down. Fuck especially the you that has buttons down the front, and fuck the you that isn’t made of stretch fabric.
In fact, you can take my fuck you and bring it back to your home planet where you live with jumpers and crop tops and string bikinis and share it with them too. Fuck the whole lot of you and know in your heart that everyone above a size 10 hates your fucking smug 80s comeback guts.
Fuck the way you look so doable on mannequins. Fuck your insanely long zips. Fuck the way you bulge. Fuck the way you cover belly buttons. Fuck you in every colour and wash. And especial-fucking-ly fuck you stone washed.
Fuck you high-waisted jeans. Fuck you and every other fucking trend that makes me feel like I don’t even exist in the fashion world and like my body is a humongous beast that’s about to burst forth and rip the fabric of the world in two. Just fuck you. Get the fuck away from me and on your way out invite back in empire waists because they were a good crew who made me feel safe and understood. And also floor-length sweaters.