…”Once upon a time there was a barely teenage jin who had a gorgeous pair of Paisley jeans, much like the pattern in your photo. She loved those jeans ever so much. She also had a teensy tiny mole near her belly button & her parents were upper middle class (at the time) with a wealth of medical insurance! So they took the young jin to a Manitowoc butcher to have the mole removed because, of course, back then there was no Cindy Crawford sexy moles there was just CANCER! *GASP* (And good Insurance.) Young jinny wore her favourite Paisley jeans that fateful day to the pediatricians office. (Surgeon? Hell no. Exacto knife in an office with thickly stained carpeting & an old doc with shaky tobacco stained rubber-glove-less fingers. Oooohhhh… sanitary!)
He sliced off the tiny mole after slathering my belly with 175 layers of the everlasting Iodine stain they proclaimed made everything sanitary (I wonder if that included hands & the spittle coated corners of his lips).
Immediately after they told me to pull up my jeans & get the fuck out of the office. I remember replying in a whisper, “bu-but… my jeans… will they be ruined…? They’re my favourite…”
They told me of course they wouldn’t be ruined & that I needed to hurry & leave.
I hurried and left.
My Paisley jeans were ruined. It soaked all the way through the zipper & down the crotch. I could never wear them again.
The mole was, of course, not cancerous.
To this day, I have a huge scar where that cracker-jack-box-licensed hick cut it off me & I refuse to wear bikinis because of it.
I yell at my mother at least once per year for being taken for a ride at my expense.
I have a tragic story of Paisley…
…”Once upon a time there was a barely teenage jin who had a gorgeous pair of Paisley jeans, much like the pattern in your photo. She loved those jeans ever so much. She also had a teensy tiny mole near her belly button & her parents were upper middle class (at the time) with a wealth of medical insurance! So they took the young jin to a Manitowoc butcher to have the mole removed because, of course, back then there was no Cindy Crawford sexy moles there was just CANCER! *GASP* (And good Insurance.) Young jinny wore her favourite Paisley jeans that fateful day to the pediatricians office. (Surgeon? Hell no. Exacto knife in an office with thickly stained carpeting & an old doc with shaky tobacco stained rubber-glove-less fingers. Oooohhhh… sanitary!)
He sliced off the tiny mole after slathering my belly with 175 layers of the everlasting Iodine stain they proclaimed made everything sanitary (I wonder if that included hands & the spittle coated corners of his lips).
Immediately after they told me to pull up my jeans & get the fuck out of the office. I remember replying in a whisper, “bu-but… my jeans… will they be ruined…? They’re my favourite…”
They told me of course they wouldn’t be ruined & that I needed to hurry & leave.
I hurried and left.
My Paisley jeans were ruined. It soaked all the way through the zipper & down the crotch. I could never wear them again.
The mole was, of course, not cancerous.
To this day, I have a huge scar where that cracker-jack-box-licensed hick cut it off me & I refuse to wear bikinis because of it.
I yell at my mother at least once per year for being taken for a ride at my expense.
Thanks Splotch for the memories…
*sigh*
Great story, jin. Sorry about the paisley pants!