2016: My Year Without Pants – Not Pants

So it’s been a hot second since I updated the world on my journey without real pants. Last time I checked in it was because of my longing and desire to once again put on a pair of jeans and have pockets. This time I’m giving you a definition that was briefly touched on in one of my earlier posts.

The definition of Not Real Pants.

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2016: My Year Without Pants -I Miss Pants Redux

If you recall, or if you click here, you’ll remember that I missed pants many months ago. Well as the weather (in theory) gets cooler, I’m starting to miss my jeans again.

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2016: My Year Without Pants – I hate everyone (and pants)

So I’m here today to talk about a very important matter afflicting 100% of my life. The fact that I hate everyone (and pants) and now I have a shirt to tell the world about that.

Saying I hate everyone does not mean that I hate you, friends and family reading this blog. I don’t even hate most  all of the people I’ve met in life. What I mean is I hate people in a very broad sense.

For example, people are the reason KFC made a sandwich where two fried chicken breasts made up the bread and the inside was melted cheese-food-product and some sad bacon. Without chicken as the bread that’s a really shitty sandwich, just saying. People as a collective are terrible, and afflict this country and the world with some wicked terrible shit.

But on a personal level, people get in my way every single day of my life (as I’m sure they get in your way). When I’m driving, when I’m walking, when I’m just trying to redeem my free Chipotle burrito.

More recently the reason I hate everyone (and pants) and want to declare it via this Hot Topic t-shirt, is because of catcallers. I noticed a spike in the amount I get catcalled after starting this pants-less quest almost two months ago.

Two weeks ago, while walking down a not as heavily populated side street in Hollywood to drop off a book at a library, two adult babies catcalled me.

I just wanted to drop off my library book, walk back to the movie theater, and wait for my friends so we could get dinner and see Deadpool*. But no. Instead these garbage humans decided they wanted to, what? To get my number? To hook up with me? To feel somehow superior to me? Honestly, what is the goal of catcalling?

They didn’t even do it well, I walked by in my red-plaid leggings, Deadpool t-shirt, and black jacket and one of them shouted “DAMN, BITCH!”

And like, I’m expected to swoon? I don’t think so.

Less than a week later I was catcalled while walking down a main street, at 2:30 p.m.on a Wednesday. I wore a t-shirt and short-ish skirt and carried a very large bag of groceries. Two men in a U-Haul leaned out the window to shout at me.

Admittedly, I didn’t hear what they said at first because I had my headphones on. But after a minute I could make out them telling me to “Smile more, you’d be so pretty!” Instead I gave them a really unpleasant glare and kept walking back to work.

Before these back to back instances of culture, society, and genetics failing me I could only recall being catcalled in Los Angeles once. While waiting to cross the street a year and a half ago some dude leaned out of a car turning the corner and yelled his phone number at me and told me to call him**.

When I wore jeans and grubby t-shirts every day no one catcalled me. But the minute I wear short skirts and skin tight leggings the garbage men of Los Angeles seem to take notice.

So yesterday I stomped around the greater West Hollywood area and proudly wore this t-shirt (and Nightmare Before Christmas leggings). I hate everyone (and pants). No one catcalled me, though I did get a nice compliment from one of our podcast guests saying she too hates everyone and loves my boldness.

I will take that over some douche bag shouting at me from a moving vehicle any day of the week. Let’s hope more people compliment my style (instead of yelling vague attempts at compliments [?] at me) as the year without pants goes on.

*Which we did and it was awesome and also my first and only sighting of Gene Simmons, his wife Shannon Tweed, and their son Nick Simmons (who I may or may not be low key in love with)

**I wish I wrote down that phone number, there are so many wonderfully fun memes I could send him with no context.