He returns one night to his humble apartment, which is known to have vermin, and comes across a rat, which he could easily kill or set loose on the street.

But the rat- it is special. It seems to speak to him. Promises him every little thing he desires- talent, fame, and fortune. Recognition and esteem like he has only ever seen from afar; fine company like the wealthy men and women whose scraps he picks at over the sink.

Put me on your head, the rat says. Put me on your head and think of nothing.

It is strange at first, yes. Strange to feel another take control of his life and live it better than he ever could. To see miraculous things created with his own two hands, to feel his feet move in graceful and fantastic ways with a confidence he has never had.

But the rat delivers as he had promised: he receives promotions, notoriety, admiration. He is noticed. Envied. Every day is a waking dream, rubbing elbows with beautiful women and handsome men and influential personalities who lavish him with praise. It is addictive, this lifestyle- never mind that he is only ever truly conscious of it as a passenger of in own brain.

It is when he has reached heights few can ever conceive, with all that the rat had ever promised- a beautiful wife in a beautiful house with all the world in his palm, in possession of all the wealth and success a man could ever want, that the rat says that it is leaving.

Leaving? The rat cannot leave. Everything he is, the rat has provided.

"I have delivered on our bargain", the rat says. "I have brought to you all that you have ever dreamed. What more could you desire? I must live my own life, now."

The man is furious. He is terrified. He destroys the rat, in all of the ways that a rat can be destroyed, until nothing is left of it but a fine smear of marinara sauce.

He returns to the restaurant the next day moving like the shell of something hollowed-out and brittle. He cooks well- his fingers remember the movements, his eyes recognize the patterns, his mouth knows without his asking what orders to speak and what platitudes make patrons smile pleasantly with their straight white teeth.

He retains the talents of the rat. The charm of the rat. All the worldly pleasures the rat had provided him.

Still, it seems, he is little more than a vessel for the talents of the rat.

But the rat is gone.

This is not fabric

So ok look. The point is not the flared leg by itself. These cannot be yoga pants. These are, and you have to understand this if you are too young to have worn them, BLUE JEANS. And this was the last years before all jeans were 70% spandex.

They were denim, and they weren't bell bottoms. They hung loose from the knee in a way that would make a wizard envious. We all walked around like we were wearing hakama. And they dragged on the ground. That was important. Ragged cuffs. If your jeans weren't so long that they had ratty cuffs, they were embarrassingly short.

And the thing about denim is that it's a twill weave and it's cotton. So not only does it hold a lot of water, it wicks. Walking around in these suckers on a wet day could get you wet to the knees even if you never stepped in a puddle.

Then you'd go inside and take off your shoes and try to avoid letting your freezing, wet, filthy pant legs touch your skin.

Ima need the young people to look up the proper names for their pant cuts, because I don't think they MAKE yoga pants with bell bottom cuts.

However big you think bell bottoms are, you are wrong. These were all Bootcut or Flares. I know this because I wore them, and I look for bootcut/flare ALWAYS because they flatter my figure the best. As they are not very in fashion right now, this is difficult.

I also still have to roll up the ends of said pants because I am not tall enough for the size jeans I have to get, and as most medium to short but quite fat peop know, for some reason the clothing companies decide if the waist is bigger, the leg needs to be taller, and scale them as such. So we all have jeans this fucking long all the time.

However they are made with elastic materials now, so no, they do not wick the same way (thankfully).

Anyway have a quick guide:

This shit is Bootleg and Flare. Difference is subtle. Bootlegs are usually the most conservative, closest to the leg, Flares will hug to the knee and then... well... flare. And the flare can get really big and wavey, but it's still a flare if it cinches at the knee.

first 2 count as Bootcut (yeah even the one with the little split), third is Flare, fourth is a more conservative Flare but could probably get labelled Bootcut.

AND THIS

IS BELLBOTTOMS.

Scientists invented a fake disease. AI told people it was real: Nature.com

Happy Pride Month to everyone who gets this joke, laughed at it, or isn’t a homophobic or transphobic etc asshole.

Happy Pride Everyone.

Discodorididae sp. Bergh, 1891