Perhaps never have I expressed this sentiment before in my life, but here I go:

I LOVE this commercial.

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society:

… and all I want (besides being there myself) is a crappy t-shirt.

Youth large, please. Bitch will rock it, rock it good.

My address is:

200 Forsyth Street

Boca Raton, Florida

33487-3218

…

…..

…

You might think I’m kidding, but I am not.

To the gentleman in the Target parking lot, Delray Beach, noonish on Saturday:

While I am quick to commend the value of a person’s individual sense of style, I have to wonder if you’re just a bit deluded in your conviction that a stained t-shirt reading, “Dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians,” is appropriate for taking your school-age children shopping.

The taste level is somewhat questionable.

…

Yea, see, I have so much stuff to do tonight before I head down to Florida for Thanksgiving, with screaming kitten in tow, but instead, I have focused not on packing or whatevs, but picking out a travel outfit.

And at what point do I realize that I am not an adult? Or remotely sane? It’s when:

• I offend my own aesthetic sensibilities by giving into (and purchasing) the Puffy Vest;
• decide on a hot pink ‘FIERCE’ t-shirt and mini-skirt;
• cannot decide between teal leggings or striped gray legwarmers;
• am knitting a scarf, packing some cat toys, and drinking the last of a bottle of Amazin zinfandel (which my brother-in-law very kindly taught my coordination-impaired self to open last night);
• watching Seinfeld;
• blogging;
• and deciding which books and crossword puzzles I need to bring for my trip (because I already decided on the coloring book that I’d like to complete with OpiuMom).

• A murder of crows
• A flock of seagulls
• A pompadour of Seagulls
• A sleuth of bears
• An OMG of birthdays
• A charm of hummingbirds
• A lounge of lizards
• A bordello of Lindsays
• A glint of goldfish
• A rabble of butterflies
• An awkwardness of being
• A nuisance of cats
• A tweeze of eyebrows
• A melting of crayons
• A crèche of penguins
• A flush of ducks
• A hush of fucks
• A crash of hippopotami
• An unkindness of ravens
• A St. Clemens of bells
• A bandage of knives
• An effery of cohorts
• A descent of woodpeckers
• A necessity of laundry

And surely you can think of more, in the comments. …

Yes, I did cry tears of joy last night, but — on a purely superficial (and true) note — they didn’t obscure my view of this:

WTF, Michelle?

ETA: Designer Narciso Rodriquez is to blame. It makes me think of … spiders?

So with a new job, I find myself again realizing how “not grown up” I am.

They want me to wear khakis?

Whaaaaaaaaat?

Who owns those??

I might as well have a closet full of “slacks” and be done with it all.

And try finding a pair to fit your freak-body, and then let me know how it feels.

And while you’re at it, tell me where in the world one would procure a “white button-down.”

Egh.

Cowl neck shirts/sweaters are just heinous.

::waves of irrational hatred zooming out of my brain::

Why did I ever wear this shirt?

[I think it's because I liked the sleeves, and i dig heather gray, but daaaaayyuuum.]

Unflattering to the Max.

Eff you, Cowl Necks.

For real. Never again.