... the season of underbutt must end. I'm willing to wage half my common sense that a girl's inability to cut her jean shorts in a non-whohah grazing fashion is directly proportional to her receiving a grade of "unsatisfactory" on her scissors skills in kindergarten.
And to the girls who think it's totes uncool to wear Granny panties; it's not any cooler to wear their denim cousins and call them cut-offs. Let's call this thing exactly what it is: outer undergarments. Shanties (as in you shan't be wearin' that out the house). Super-textured underoos. Questionable exposables. Chubrub dancer: your thighs are calling. Jesus be some culottes.
I mean, where's a good, ruler-thwackin' hall monitor when you need one?
(This is when being naturally observant is just so painful, because I'm not a dude. I do not enjoy checking out other people's behinds, but I do work in retail, which in my experience, automatically seems to mean I'm just gonna be seein' thangs. ALL. THE. TIME. Hence, Observations. Key of me. Let's chalk it up to blog/job security.)
At any rate, the tail end of tushes tight, good-gawdly untaut and every shape, size and color in between have been paradin' gross levels of cheekiness that I can no longer abide. So much so that I've retired the side-eye and replaced it with the double-barreled glare ... and an unabashedly raised brow.
Chile, please.