Yeah, sure, pass me over for that ditzy daisy cotton sundress again. That’s just the eighty-seventh time you’ve ignored me. That’s also exactly how long you’ve imprisoned me in this nauseating rose infused wardrobe. Why can’t you pick Fresh Grass or Spring Dew like normal people do? Rose is for grannies.
I’d like to point out that the shelves in this cupboard are the warping again. You’ve obviously forgotten what the carpenter told your mother last week when he tried fixing them. He said you had enough clothes to stock a shop; reinforcing the shelves was as pointless as teaching a cat unconditional love.
I think you’re ill. I’ve been praying for your salvation. I pray you’ll wake up one morning and think about all the starving children you can save buying one dress less a month - you could save an orphanage! I pray you’ll wake up one morning and see me compressed in the treacherous depths of your wardrobe like a forgotten leaf left to dry under a pile of outdated telephone directories. I pray you’ll wake up one morning and finally understand what it feels like to be oppressed with deplorable neighbours like cotton (it fucking grows on trees), polyester (non-breathable!), lycra (why would anyone associate themselves with Baywatch and Speedos?) and other riff-raffs.
I am a silkdress, godammit! 100% Chinese silk. Spun from the silkworms of the Jiang Xi Province in China under the tutelage of Missoni. I’ve been worn by every IT Girl, featured in every ‘who wore it better’ sections of tabloids, loved by fashionistas the world over. I’ve been featured in Vogue by Wintour herself for crying out loud!
Look at me. 100% Chinese silk dress, cursed to live the rest of my life breeding mold in the abyss of this ghastly demeaning grandma-smelling wardrobe.