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2004-10-21 - 4:05 p.m.

The world presents us with mysteries at a nearly incessent clip, so much so as to be terribly annoying. The grand expanse of the universe drips with little curiousities, each deserving of years of study, so complex are their makings, origins, and gastro-intestinal system. But none will fully be unraveled as they stand in compition with the next wonderous quandry around the corner. Trying to solve anything almost seems futile when finding the littlest scrap of truth seems to lead you head long into another staggeringly large black hole of oddity.

Today's mystery of the cosmos?

Having worked through the day, I came back happily to my hotel room, and immedately ran to the bathroom, happy to excommunicate eight hours worth of pee that had been rumbling around in my belly since my first cup of coffee.

I jigged my way up to the porcilain goddess, trying to wriggle out of my pants while maintaining my pee-dance.

Somewhere amidst my Lord of the Dance impression, I noticed there was no fly on my boxers. Considering I woke up at six o'clock, the idea of putting on my boxers backwards wasn't all that staggering. I reached in back, but still no fly.

Nonplussed I looked inside the elastic. In tag. Then to the back.

One mystery leads to another.

The question of the day? Who is Carla Barett? Because, apparently, I'm wearing her underwear.

And for that matter who actually sews a little piece of cloth into their skivies for the purpose of tagging it with their name. Is there any possibility that a custody battle might arise over said pair of drawers and their branding might influence the ruling?

I have to say, they are quite comfortable, and after my discovery, I kept them on. I'm an over the top guy anyway. When you try and come out the airlock, you don't get a good grip your first time in, you end up looking like your having a fight with your unwilling penis.

It isn't too stunning that these got mixed in without me noticing. I don't have a brand, and I never really get any fancy pairs of boxers. I usually get the shrink wrapped sets of ten for five dollars at Target. Some would say that a fine looking pair of briefs are tantamount to sexual conquest, but first of all, is there anyone alive that can resist the horte couture of Tar-get, and secondly, if the seduction has come to the point that pants are doffed, you're probably well on your way. In all honesty, in my memories of women's underwear, which are becoming increasingly hazy, I didn't do too much time with the looking. At the time they were revealed, I was more obsessed with their removal. The only time I even really took note of underwear was in the half-dreamy mornings, or just after periods while lazily lying around, inventing new ways to use your partner as a pillow.

Carla's here lay firmly in the androdginous zone. Sans a hole on one side they seem like standard, red cotton boxers. While it is rather disturbing wearing someone elses underwear - a topic much discussed with an ex-girlfriend as I worried about the kind of sweat that gathers in that area over the course of the day - I found them folded, meaning they must have been part of my laundry I had done just before the trip.

I've heard it said that you don't want to die with dirty underwear on. I don't know what the public opinion is in dying in clean underwear that happens to belong to a woman.

I'd think to return them, but how exactly do you walk into a laundramat and exclaim:

"Do you know Carla Barrett? Because I have her underwear."

I get the feeling that's a felony somewhere, not unlike yelling 'bomb' in an airport.

The universe is coy and mysterious certainly. Where else but in this world would I find myself in a seven month celibacy run, and yet still in posession of a bright spanking new pair of women's panties? Thank you, spirits above...the joke is appreciated.

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