I wear underwear.

I know that doesn’t make me special. I suppose it could make me special if you consider that there are millions of starving children in the world and frail, dehydrated adults that don’t wear underwear and if they could just get that whole “not starving/dehydrating to death” thing under control they’d probably be pretty peeved that they have to wear pants and dresses without something cradling their junk. So I feel lucky that I have underwear to keep my bits warm and secure. I’m looking at the bright side of my life, motherfuckers.

So, even though I’m one of the lucky, oh, let’s say fifty percent of the world that have undies (completely accurate stat), is it too much to ask that they don’t be the death of me? Because I’m afraid my new, pink underwear are controlling at best and deadly at worst.

Now, don’t get too worried yet. I haven’t heard my panties plotting my demise. I mean, perhaps they are, but I’m not delusional enough to think that they can talk. Okay, I’ve actually entertained the idea that they can talk, but just in a frequency inaudible to human ears. They seem to be warning me of their dangerous nature, luring me in but repulsing me at the same time, sort of like a man sporting a popped collar.

My new pair of underwear, just like that dude, seem to be a bit douchey. Apparently both want to control what goes on in a lady’s junk. Uh uh. Take a look:

I mean, I appreciate the suggestion: KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE. But I don’t feel the friendly, “Hey, Erica, let’s not flick matches at your crotch” advice is for me. No way. Either the underwear just want to save themselves (so weird that a single item is treated like a plural…), letting me know that tossing them on an antiquated radiator is a bad idea or they want to make sure they just don’t burn up while on me, like, hey, don’t be eating Bananas Foster in bed while wearing ME. These underwear are just looking out for numero uno. I’m numero dos, for sure. My underwear are intent on not going up in some conflagration and my vagina not catching on fire is just a passing concern, a happy cherry on top of things, so to speak.

So there go my plans for the evening to coat my foot-long, bright yellow dildo with Sterno and light it on fire before introducing it to my labia. Fuck. I never get to do anything fun anymore.

Maybe I should just cut off the tag and be happy I get underwear, no matter how disturbed they, or I, may be.