I’ve been wearing those stupid athletic shorts forever. They feel comfy. I feel comfy.
Comfy is such a great word – it invokes eating Annie’s Mac’n’cheese off of my stomach. It invokes leaving my penis in a vagina without thrusting. Comfy invokes making a fort out of pillows and then ODing inside of it.
To me comfy can mean lots of different things, it’s just a matter of finding the comfy in it. It’s a matter of finding the way you can feel like everyone is probably judging you for your decisions, but they are wrong because despite how you may have assaulted societal demands of you, you stubbornly stand by your decision because it makes you feel good. It is the ultimate form of laziness, indignance, and self-love. It is everything I stand for.
Couches with indentations from years of sleeping on it because your bed seemed one too many flights of stairs away (aka: one flight of stairs) are comfy. Here I sit in one of those couches with my comfy athletic shorts that have been worn for weeks without wash and my life is good. I’m gonna go buy Annie’s Mac’n’Cheese and pour it all over my stomach – I’m going to eat a comfortable salad of chest pubes and cheddar cheese and small pasta shells.