you make the call.

First: I’m incredibly pissed off that 98.9 KJFK seems to have just disappeared and become a Soft Rock station, taking with it my only chance to listen to Howard Stern.

Between that and the “Downtown Jam,” the incredible meltdown of the Austin road system — where they’ve closed off almost all of downtown, parts of the highway, and sometimes the whole highway until 2002 and try and make it look like it’s a big damn party — there are times when I’m not upset that I’m leaving Austin.

Second: I’m a part of the bad ass new portal Damn Hell Ass Kings. You can go there for updates about your favorite (and new favorite) sites every day. Rock.

And now, the real point of the entry.

You might want to leave right now if you’re a member of my family, close to me or my boyfriend, or have no interest in hearing about the following things: my underwear, my ass, or my sex life.

So, if you’re not one of those people, just click here and go read something else.

Mom, I’m serious, here. Don’t call me tomorrow and complain that I shouldn’t talk about my panties to the world.

Okay.

I’m sure everyone is still here (including my mother), so whatever. You’ve been warned. But I swear to God, Andy, this isn’t giving you permission to try and see my underwear. You got it?

You too, Bearden.

Okay.

I am aware, as I’m sure you are as well, of the new fad/trend/whatever in underwear. These days, it’s the cool thing to wear a thong. It’s not so much just a stripper prop anymore, but is used under all of these small skirts, pants, and capris the kids love so much these days. I can’t remember which journal I was reading lately (I thought it was Sars but after scouring her archives, I can’t find anything) but she was talking about the joys of the thong.

I have some skirts and some pants where I know you can see the panty line, and I’m not a huge fan of the panty line. I suppose on some girls it’s okay, and for some boys, it’s really hot, but for me, it looks like I’m wearing giant underwear under something too small.

That’s one point for thongs.

But, you know, there’s that thong stigma, that “I’m buying a thong” gross feeling that says you’re a dirty, dirty girl.

Point against thongs.

Eric is pro-thongs.

Point for thongs.

I couldn’t possibly try on a thong and then put it back on the rack if I didn’t like it. I imagine you try it on over your underwear, but how do you know the people before you were doing that, and didn’t just put it on full tilt boogie and pranced around a bit before putting it back on the rack? How do you know what size you should get if you’ve never worn one before? How are they supposed to fit? How are they supposed to feel?

A couple of points against thongs. Still, I had bought a new skirt, and the curiosity was overwhelming, so I picked out one thong to go with it.

Of course, I couldn’t just buy the thong and then walk out with my dignity intact. The cashier had to ring up all of my other purchases and then hand them to me so that I had to say out loud: “You forgot to charge me for the thong.”

Lord.

I tried them on in the privacy of a public restroom. I was horrified.

I do not know what you people like about these things. They seem to be very unflattering, and point to all of the parts I try and hide from the public on a daily basis. They highlight flaws I didn’t even know I had and make me feel like a big scary monster.

But then he complimented me, and then I saw myself in a non-harsh light (a public restroom isn’t really the most flattering place to take stock of yourself), and I started feeling more comfortable.

But there was the whole “There’s something in my ass” feeling, which really didn’t go away for the first evening.

There’s something in your ass. You can’t really ignore it. I suppose you could get used to it, like a piercing or something, and you notice when it’s not there more than when it’s there. But at first, all you notice is this piece of fabric stuck in your ass. It’s right there. Singing you a little song.

And, I don’t really know how to explain this, but there comes a moment where you just let yourself be at peace with the thong. You fight it and struggle so long that eventually all you can do is sit back and think, “I’m wearing a thong. It’s okay. In fact, some people like it quite a bit. You’re a dirty thong girl, and that’s kind of cool. In fact, it’s kind of sexy. Yeah. It is sexy to be a dirty thong girl. And no panty lines. And no one knows. It’s your thong secret. And even if they know you’re wearing a thong, they don’t know what you look like exactly in the thong. They just know you’re wearing one. They insert the perfect ass into their thoughts when they imagine you wearing the thong. They don’t have any basis of reality. Their minds have a thong and an idea of your ass. How sweet is that?”

You whisper to your friends about your new purchase, and they give you sly little grins and lower their voices to say, “I know, aren’t they great? I have so many of them.” They give you thong tips, which you wish you had before you went out for your first purchase.

You become quite talented at the move where you slide your hand into the top of the back of your pants for the moment when your thong becomes just a bit too thongy.

You take them on and off without pausing to think, “Do I look like a moron? Will the emergency room crew be upset or think they’re doing me a favor if they have to cut them off?”

You can’t get that Sisqo song out of your head every time you go to the bathroom. It’s maddening.

You notice that the hair in the ass crack factor has been lowered, since your ass already has visitors.

You feel like everyone is looking at your ass and knows you’re a dirty, bad girl who wears stripper clothes.

And for some reason, you don’t seem to mind.