Wear your fuck yeah jeans

Fuck yea jeans are the pair of jeans I own that I love too much. I wear them almost every chance I get, regardless if they are clean or dirty. They are comfortable, maybe a little worn, but they look alright. They're not too low or highwaisted, nor are they an awkward cut. They are still clean enough if they have dirt on the knees or on the side, or if they have a peculiar raspberry-coloured stain near the pocket that I can't decide whether its food or some sort of ink.

I call them fuck yea jeans because when they are clean, like actually clean, that's what I say. I say it aloud to myself when I realize that I actually took them off long enough to throw them in with the ordinary clothes. "Fuck yea, jeans."

They are still fuck yea jeans if they aren't freshly out of the washing machine. They are still fuck yea jeans if they get things spilt on them throughout the night, when the colour starts to fade, when you buy new jeans that you really like. It's never the same. The places I've been in these jeans, the art, thoughts, and people I've met and experienced. I've slept in them, and worn them the next day more times than I can count.

If I didn't have to look nice today, I would have worn them. They are not fuck yea clean, but they will have to be for the weekend that's to come.