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I don’t know where to begin….  I guess I should start by saying I’m sorry.  I have no alternative explanation other than to assume this is fate.  When one considers the amount of coincidence that was required for you to be stolen, fate is the only explanation.  This morning, I looked out the window and saw that it was raining.  You were comfortably nested atop my dresser, as you usually were.  I took my sweatpants off, grabbed you hastily and put you on.  This was the beginning of the end of our relationship.  Had it not been raining, and had you not been very comfortable to wear in the rain, you would still be nested atop my dresser.  But fate had other plans.

You kept me warm on our walk to take my bio final.  You created friction on my leg as I shook my foot compulsively during the exam.  And after the test, when we drove to the gym together, I could have easily taken you off in the car.  But I didn’t.  I didn’t want my legs to get wet.  So I kept you on.  Once in the gym, I could have easily gotten a locker to put you in.  But I didn’t. “Who would steal a pair of pants?” I thought.  Nobody.  Nobody would steal someone else’s pants, that have been rubbing on someone else’s crotch, and in someone else’s rear-end.  Nobody would do that.  So I hung you up on a coat rack in the locker room, and went to go lift weights.  I even thought about you while I was lifting.  “Would someone steal someone else’s pants from a locker room?  Nawwwwwww.”  As I finished my workout, I went back to the locker room to get you.  And you were gone.  My stomach dropped, my heart fluttered, my hair stood on end, blood rushed to my extremities.  “Did you see a pair of pants hanging here?” I asked everyone in the locker room.

“No.”  I rushed to the front desk.

“Did someone turn in a pair of pants?”

“No.”  I rushed into the weight room.  My heart was racing.  I walked with purpose around the room, looking for you in every gym bag that I saw.  I felt like I was in high school again.  I was going to find the person who took you.  But I couldn’t.  I didn’t.

You were too good to be true, weren’t you?  You were tight enough to be business casual and loose enough to be comfortable.  A perfect 34 waist, with wide legs to fit nicely over my Saucony’s or over a pair of black shoes.  You and I had some times together, didn’t we?  I wore you to events, to school, to social gatherings.  I wore you in the snow.  I wore you in the rain.  During the week, you were accompanied by a white t-shirt.  During the weekend, a black t-shirt.  You had just started to get a light, gentle fray at your feet.  It wasn’t offensive; just subtle enough to be okay.  You were my pants.  And had it not been raining, had you not been comfortable in the rain, had I not gone to the gym, had I not worn you into the gym, and I had I gotten a locker, you would still be with me.  But fate had other things in store for us.  I’m sorry that you’re with someone else.  Judging from the demographic of the Berkeley 24-hour fitness, you are either with a hipster or a large ghetto black man.  And you’re most likely being torn up by a bike chain right now, as you ride in the middle of traffic through the streets of Berkeley.  I hope the bike chain puts you out of your misery, so you don’t have to be with your new owner much longer.  I will never be able to replace you.  And I hope one day you can forgive my carelessness.

A message to those whose personality type leads them to steal someone’s pair of pants off a locker room wall –  My hope is that one day, one fine day, you steal a pair of pants that is gently infused with crabs, or perhaps syphilis.  And as you ride your bicycle down Berkeley streets, and you begin to get an itchy feeling, you become paralyzed with fear and your legs lock up.  An angry Berkeley driver would then hit you, knocking you over, and ruining your brand new pants that you’ve stolen.  The driver would stop, pull over, and ask you if you were okay.  Unable to respond because of the infernal itching in your crotch, you stare at him blankly while frantically itching.  The driver looks down, and sees that it’s his pants that you’re wearing.  He smiles, and rips his pants off of you.  You’re unable to fight back because of the itch, and you lay there on a crowded Berkeley street, naked from the waist down, crying and itching your pubic region.  At this point, everyone is too afraid of you to offer help, and a news truck happens to be driving by.  The camera man hops out, and video tapes you, half naked, writhing in pain from the itch.  All because you stole a pair of pants.

So next time you’re in a locker room, and you see a pair of pants hanging from the wall, and you’re tempted to take them, think of our friend with the crotch-itch.  Think of my pants.  And move the fuck on.


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