Footie Pajamas + Angela = TRULUV4EVR

I should preface this by saying that I have yet to hop on the Snuggie/Slanket bandwagon. I’m no stalwart, and I don’t think they’re stupid, I just haven’t gotten one yet.

I’m assuming that I have not owned a set of footie pajamas since I was 8 years old. And I have no idea how or why I have survived 25 winters without them. I bought some on Friday for a sleepover, and I think I have had them on for some portion of every day since. I’m sure my roommates are all making fun of me — as they should — but I don’t care. I’m warm, suckerrrrrs. For the first time in years! No ankle drafts, no needing to layer three sweatshirts, no shivering away like one of those tiny hairless dogs. Thank you, footie pajamas. You’re my favorite fuzzy article of clothing in the whole universe.

Did I mention they have pictures of monkeys and stars all over them? Well, THEY DO.

True story: a former professor once told me that I harbored a sort of innate sophistication that wouldn’t really find its outlet until I moved somewhere urban and started hanging around with sophisticated people. Or something like that. I was likely drunk at the time, so this might not have been the point he was trying to make. I think he was more maligning my hometown than trying to pay me a compliment. But anyway, the point is, my sophistication, I GUESS IT HAS FOUND ITS OUTLET NOW.

Footies Forever
You can’t tell, but right here, I am listening to Coltrane on vinyl, drinking a gin and tonic, and contemplating the role of fatalism in the later works of Diderot.

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