First of all, mankind: GET AWAY FROM ME. Why do you have to look at the very same lesbian suit I'm looking at? Why do you have to breath on me, first-generation Russian lady?
Then I'm in the dressing room hopping around on one foot when it becomes apparent to me that I will never, ever get in this particular lesbian suit unless I get in a Delorian and go back to 2002, and I trip over my own enormous purse and crash into the door, tumbling out into the store. This is especially horrifying given that I just had to look at my ass under the fluorescent yellow lights and now every one else was. Jesus Christ, no one is allowed to come at me from behind ever again unless they're wearing some kind of blindfold under the pretense of being kinky, but that's irrelevant, because in addition to everything else:
People are now refusing to have cyber sex with me in addition to regular sex. Are you kidding me? I know you've always hated me, God, and you can bet the feeling's mutual now.
And in retrospect, the lesbian suit looks more like a flannel bathrobe than anything. Whatever, I'm going to go slop vodka all over it.