Wanna hear something disgusting?

Well, ok. Fine. If you must know. But be prepared to be fully grossed out. I’m not kidding. This is really disgusting.

It has to do with a trashcan. And a needle. Let’s just call this little adventure “The Needle in the Haystack, aka a Formidable Assemblage of Disgusting Detritus.”

It begins like this: When I was in Geneva, Switz. this fall, being the fabulous type of person I am who flits off to Geneva, H&M was having a sale, and I presciently bought a bunch of tank-tops I knew I would need to combat the infernal hell-hole that is Phoenix.

One of them was retro-green (you know the color) and white. It was super cute.

It also ties around my neck.

I usually don’t get tops of that kind. Why? Well, when you’re 34D, it’s not very comfortable to have several pounds of boobage hanging from an itty-bitty string around your neck. (See how hard life is for us?) Of course my boyfriend convinced me that I could go without a bra.

Ok, not to bring up the “S” word, but at 34D, you can only go sans bra if they’re FAKE and you don’t have to worry about that whole gravity issue. Me? I’m an all-natural chick. I have to take the “S” word into account every. single. minute. of. my. day. (See how hard life is for us?)

So of course the top has sat in the back of my closet since October. But today, I thought, “I haven’t done laundry in a month. What the hell can I wear that doesn’t have dog hair on it?” And I remembered: the shirt.

When I tried it on and realized the whole tying-around-the-neck thing wasn’t going to work, I had a brilliant idea. I’ll just sew the straps to the back, and voila, a normal, big-boob-friendly shirt!

So I went to get my needle.

Now in order to fully understand this story, you have to know three things:

1. Earlier this week, my boyfriend had a nasty bout of food poisoning. Result: one slimed pair of underwear in trashcan.

2. Earlier, that day, I had done a little, er, you know, trimming. Result: in trashcan.

3. J*zz. In trashcan. Don’t ask why/how.

Also, keep in mind that my boyfriend is impatiently waiting for me to get ready to go out to brunch, getting crankier with every little tummy-rumbling, bless his meal-driven little man-soul. Any minute he was going to walk up the stairs and force me to wear something that wasn’t the cute shirt I wanted to wear.

So I grabbed my little sewing kit, marched into the bathroom, and prepared to begin my operation. I poured out the contents of my kit. I thought about how cool I was for knowing how to sew. I envisioned the five minutes it would take to complete my project. I thought about how cute I would look. I found my thread. I found my needle. My needle had khaki-colored thread in it. I tossed the khaki-colored thread in the trashcan.

And the needle fell in too.

I watched as it disappeared into the formidable assemblage of disgusting detritus in our trashcan with a sinking feeling. But still, a glimmer of hope remained. Perhaps it only fell sort of on the top? Maybe it just got caught in the (nearly sterile!) crinkles of the plastic toilet paper wrap? Well, maybe if I just pick up the wrapper (without the results of my earlier topiary endeavors falling on the floor) I’ll be able to see it better.

….aaaaand No.

Ok, well, maybe if I just pick up this one piece of toilet paper I’msureIhardlyused I’ll be able to see where it is. No? Ok, that other piece doesn’t look too dirty. Ew. I spoke too soon. Ok, well, I’ll just pick up that next one…

And so it went. Until I had carefully reconstructed in reverse the Formidable Assemblage of Disgusting Detritus. And what did I find? Lots o’ hair, lots o’ goo, lots o’ disgusting crap—and no needle.

The moral of the story?

H&M should f*cking learn to make shirts we 34Ds can wear, too. B*stards.