O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day! Most lamentable day, most woeful day, that ever, ever, I did yet behold! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! Never was seen so black a day as this: O woeful day, O woeful day! Alack the day, fashion’s dead, fashion’s dead, fashion’s dead! O me, O me! Help, help! Call help.
Today I committed the most fabulous of all fashion flops, the most furious of all fashion faux pas – it was truly calamitous. The dreaded VPL accosted my buxom bottom with careless caress. The Panty Line was Visible to all and sundry. So utterly Visible. It dug into my raunchy rear end with ravenous relish; a site so horribly tragic that sporadic squirms of distressed discomfort permeated my person as I imagined the horror that accosted the unfortunate vision of passers-by who, of course, were all staring at my disastrous derrière.
O woeful day!
The great thing about days is that they end.