I hate ironing. I hate it even when I’m ironing some of my most ridiculous and favourite dresses. I hate it even while doing it naked. I hate it when I’m ironing down hems and lace bibs, because my “Militant Lolita” movement will never take off with wrinkles. I hate ironing on full-sized boards; I hate ironing on this tiny little apartment-sized board. I hate ironing when Ed does it (I smooth out no man’s pleats). I hate it when I fuck up and melt a hole in the aforementioned lace bib, requiring me to add “Shabby Chic” to my Militant Lolita description. I hate it when my delightfully full skirts and dresses need ironing, because a full skirt is double the material as if fat girls didn’t already have more surface area to cover. I hate ironing. I hate it when it twists ankles. I hate sneaky clothing that wrinkles easily and just doesn’t look right until you take an iron to it. I hate unfriendly fabric. I hate wrinkles. I HATE IRONING.

Of all the womanly duties our mothers were supposed to teach us in order to be good wives, ironing has to be my least favourite after dry. foreplay-less missionary sex in the dark. We live in the future. We have fabrics that remove odour, charge your electronics, glow in the dark, gives you hugs from the internet and MORE – yet fabric that smooths itself is out of reach. Yeah, there’s “permanent press” stuff for business wear, but MY business wear happens to include an olive green dress with lace and ruffles – where are MY permanent press options? Not everyone drapes themselves in polyester pantsuits every damn day. STOP REPRESSING ME!

damnit!