no more tears*

[* as in "to pull apart or in pieces by force, esp. so as to leave ragged or irregular edges", not "fluid appearing in or flowing from the eye as the result of emotion".]

i always wondered how many more parties that old pair of jeans had in them.
the answer? just one.
that rip across the ass goes almost from side to side.
i blame the dancing.
a case of beer and Michael Jackson's 'Off The Wall' never fail to conjure a mean drunken shimmy, and once i started twisting those pants stood no chance.
i've (my mom has) done a lot of patchwork over the past few years, but this time they're beyond repair. when held up to the light certain stress areas in the crotchal/backside region are almost translucent.
but goddamn i got some mileage out of those fucks.
paint stains. blood stains. Jager stains.
they've slept indoors, outdoors, on stairs and in jail.
they've been pissed upon. (not by me)
they've been puked upon. (probably me, uncomfirmed)
now they join a pantheon of long-ago-mangled but never forgotten clothing that i like to call Hero Squad.
right up there with the still MIA Cariboo-Mainline shirt with Einstein on the front; that striped sweater that got eaten by the barbwire fence; and that 'Check Your Head' tee that i got at The Bay back in '93.
or maybe i'll turn 'em into some sweet cutoffs.