I used to think humanity was fundamentally good, but now I know that some people are really, truly messed up. Last night, a degenerate stranger snuck into my room and stole my mom’s underpants, one of my most cherished possessions. You read about perverts all the time in the news, but it’s deeply troubling to encounter one in real life.

It was a night like any other. At around 9 p.m., I fell asleep face down with my mother’s panties on my pillow. The next morning, I woke up to find that they had vanished—literally stolen from right under my nose. I can’t even begin to describe how disconcerting it was, waking up without the familiar scent of my mother’s underpants wafting toward my face—not to mention the fact that a pervert had been in my room without my knowledge!

Granted, I could have taken steps to prevent this from happening. In hindsight, I should not have custom-ordered a sign reading “Panty Central: The Domain of Mommy’s Little Boy” and hung it on my bedroom door; nor should I have posted a picture of the panties on Facebook with the caption “Fruit of the Womb: Get Them While They’re Hot. Just kidding, these are my mother’s underpants and they are my most prized belonging. I wouldn’t give them up for anything.” In flaunting mommy’s sexy undies, I may have unknowingly attracted a flock of sexual deviants to my door.

And to think that the thief could have stolen anything in my room—the framed picture of my parents with the red X over my father’s face, mom’s bra, my sweetass GameCube—yet he chose to steal my mother’s finest, laciest underwear, the one thing in this world I’m not sure I can live without. If that’s not perverted, then I don’t know what is.

In short, my shrine is completely ruined, all thanks to one depraved pervert who couldn’t resist the temptation of mom’s panties. You’ve got some deep-seated psychological issues, dude, and you should really see a therapist, right after you return my mother’s underpants so that I may sleep soundly once again.

 

—E. Connors

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