My mother has these trousers, these awful corduroys. They rub between her thighs and make a noise, and it drives me insane. Every time she visits, I tell her not to bring them. Every time, she brings them anyway. She walks around my living room in the trousers, like she can’t just sit and read; she’s gotta be moving all the time, and she wears the trousers.

She says trousers just do that. It’s not a special property of those trousers. But it’s totally those trousers, those ones every time. Christ, who buys corduroys?

Do you want to see that today, Internet? Well, here it is, with a cloud that’s a little dick-shaped, but not dick-shaped enough to be funny. Disappointing.

Last time she visited, my mother got rid of a lot of my trousers, mostly the ones I’d had since high school. She binned half my wardrobe, in fact. That’s what I get for letting her help me move. She didn’t want me, like, profaning my new place with all my old rubbish, and she threw out my trousers, and my lacy shirt, and that old fur coat I used to sleep under. Also half my underpants, and those boots with the soles hanging off. She threw out my favourite jumper, the one I got in Sweden, the one I’d had for twenty years. It was thin as a cobweb and so soft I couldn’t feel it on my back. It was threadbare and manky, but I wanted it. I wanted all that shit. I especially wanted my old coat. I used it as a blanket and a dressing-gown, and also as a cushion.

She’s so ruthless with my things, and she can’t toss those corduroys.

I should get her a present, y’know, to thank her for helping me move. New trousers should do it. New, quiet ones.

(Sorry, Mother.)