I am not wearing this t-shirt to work again EVER. And if I do, somebody kick me!
I feel like such a tart right now.
It didn't look bad this morning, this so-called designer t-shirt that cost me a bloody fortune a few months ago when I bought it.
In the dim pre-dawn light of a Monday morning it actually looked cheerful.
Now I look like a middle-aged hard-bit floozy. The t-shirt is tighter than a coconut skin in the rinse cycle. It's more see-through than that thing Tiffany-Amber wore to the wet t-shirt contest the night she got pregnant with Billy-Bob's unwanted cloven-hoofed wench-whelp.
I was expecting compliments when I trounced into the office this morning. "Gee, Cathy, is that a new t-shirt?" But nobody said nothing. After seeing myself in the reflection of the washroom mirror a while ago, I think it's safe to say they're following the "if you can't say anything nice don't say anything at all" rule.
I'd give anything to change right about now. Or throw on a sweater. That being impossible I'm kinda hunched under my desk, only my chin poking up as I reach my trailer trash pudge-knuckles over the keyboard in a vain attempt to keep the boss from seeing my bra strap.
And it's not even my good bra. It's the one that isn't white anymore having picked up a putrid grey-blue hue from going through the washing machines with my jeans. It's kinda saggy in the back, too; well, saggy in the bits that haven't fallen into the vast crevasses of back fat that are remarkably better endowed than the cheese biscuits I've got drooping off the front.