My father is one to look at clothes with an Amish eye: "That skirt comes above the knee. Are you sure you want this?" or "This shirt is a button-up, and maybe someone could peer through the buttonholes!" or my favorite, "Jeans over $50?! Insanity. I could knit you jeans for free. We're leaving."

But I marched into Buckle last night, his charge card in hand. Armed. Ready. Willing to spend ungodly amounts of money on pants. And you're not in there five minutes before ten people tackle you and badger you about needing help.

"Hi! Are you looking for something? No? Well, we have some sale stuff. You just want to klook? Okay. Well, but we do have these half-price. Okay, I'm leaving. But these jeans would look so good on you. They're made in Hollywood. Britney Spears lvoes to wear them. You ahte her? Oh. Well, we have some nice cargo pants for more of the ass-kicker types. What about belts? Wallets? Cologne? Bracelets? Any useless crap you'll wear once and give to the Salvation army?"

Ah, well, I'm tired. I'm going to bed. I'll finish this later.

© alexa

The counter keeps breaking and pissing me off, so NO MORE COUNTER! Mwahaha!