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siannan: (Default)
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I wasn't going to answer this because it was triggery, and sounds too far-fetched to be real. Fuck it, believe me or don't.

My maternal unit, in some of her many attempts to gaslight me, used to "fix" the seams of my clothes with basting stitches and not do anything to secure the ends of the thread when she was done.

More than once my shorts or pants would split open after her tampering with them. When I would complain, she would smirk and say she had nothing to do with it, it was because I was so fat. Yeah, right, that's why the stitching was done with the spool of green thread sitting out on the end table, there, and not the factory color.

She could be that cruel.

ETA: One case in particular involved the bottoms of a pink fleece track suit that I innocently wore to a friend's birthday party at an amusement park. When another guest pulled me aside and pointed out that I was gaping open at the crotch and ass, I ran to the bathroom and took all of the friendship pins (remember those?) off my sneakers, dumped the beads on the floor, and tried to fasten the two halves together again. It didn't work that well.
siannan: (hippie)
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Anyone who chooses trendiness over comfort hasn't grown up yet. Life is too short to have your feet pinched, to have your pantyhose rolling down your ass, to get jabbed by underwires.

When you're comfortable, you don't give a fuck how you look, and you don't give a fuck what other people think. When you're comfortable, you know you're not there to decorate the shallow little world of people who think they can look down on you for wearing Birks and flannel.

It's also easier to kick people in the balls when you're not worried about your waistband digging into you.

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