Yesterday morning, before leaving home, I was struck with the distinct urge to change my pants. It was not a passing thought, but very pronounced, pressing, a do-or-die sensation. I would go so far as to call it a voice in my head, gentle and calm, but insistent. Yet, I had just changed my pants the day before.
So I didn't change my pants.
That afternoon, however, my attention was, by chance, drawn to the crotch of my blue jeans, which had, at some point between breakfast and lunch, become split up the crotch, awarding me a vagina of sorts. They were old pants, so their splitting didn't surprise me until later, when I remembered what had happened that morning.
Good thing I wasn't out of state, on business, alone, in my truck, and due to an appointment. (Notice my sarcasm.)
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