what the fuck am I wearing

 

Do you ever forget what you’re wearing and then, stimulated by the gentle caress of satin or worn fleece (you’re not sure which) you ask yourself, “wait, what am I wearing?” You try to recall your morning routine in which you haphazardly dressed yourself in a waning Ambien haze, your mind occupied with obsessing over that awkward dream where your boobs kept falling out of your ill-fitting swimsuit.

“Wait, now really, what the fuck am I wearing??” You look down and see a loose, yet clingy clown-suit that can’t seem to contain your regular-sized breasts. You sigh and think “Oh, so this is just another dream” as screaming monkeys dressed as English royalty fly in through your window.