“Happy to help,” says the underwear, it’s vibe tickling my hips. Even when you remove the underwear, it won’t shut up. Nor do you want silence. That’s worse. Not that you mean to insult it by telling it shut up. But if clothes make the man. Clothes may also make up things about that man. Gossipy underclothes are worse than a paper cut.

Example: “You’re not good enough to wear me.”

“I am too,” you say. You expect a response back. But the underwear provides the silent treatment. It’s silence is deafening.

“Carry on,” a friend says when you tell them about your latest dysfunctional underpinnings. “Make other friends.”

“Who said my undies are my friends.”

“You did.”

“Oh,” you recall. “Yeah.” But it’s a lie. You just want people to think your undies like you. They don’t.

But enough is enough. Confrontation time. You sit there, naked on one side of the room. The underwear on the other. It looks expensive and clean, as usual. You, on the other hand, feel dirty and cheap.

“Because you are,” says the underwear.

“Shut up,” you tell it. “Get out.”

And it does. Never to return.

Well, you think. That wasn’t so hard after all.