HIS PANTS WERE killing me. Killing me. I don't mean to say that they were embarrassing or that they made me hide my head in shame. This simple item of clothing possessed much more power than that – it evoked a sensation one can only liken to that of death. The Yanni-flavored pants were billowy, satiny, glossier than a greasy girl's nose, and emblazoned with a lavish seascape along the cuff that included misty depictions of whales, sea otters, and algae. Can you feel my pain?

The fated Party Pants are precisely the sort of El Cerrito thing one might wear to the Sound Factory when one wishes to indulge in an evening of roofies, apple-flavored martinis, and a little Camaro drag racing later on. And what made it all the more terrifying was that he had meticulously ironed them, sending out the horrific message that he had put unacceptable levels of effort into the Party Pants. The only known instance in which one may be caught alive in Party Pants is when one's house is on fire and the Party Pants are the only item of clothing one can find as one dashes outside, running for dear life. But now that I'm thinking about it, only maybe then.

"Never, ever call him again," ordered the bossy Alejandro, an unbelievably snotty Prada-Gucci-Paul Smith-Dolce and Gabbana hybrid and former roommate who has acted as my ethical fashion consultant for years.

Surely the potential for passion between me and Party Pants boy was on the rocks when a friend reported on the fire-engine red cable-knit sweater he was spotted in the night before. "There were green moons embroidered on the sleeves!" she cried. "I tell you no lies." Call me a snob, but I've never been a fan of Man Sweaters, particularly those with celestial themes. Seasonal-themed Man Sweaters are a tad bit worse, reminding me of slick Sacramento real estate agents who indulge in excessively blow-dried hair, pressed slacks, and fancy, silky socks. Manic-depressive indie kids are perhaps the only fashion entities who can pull off the raggedy Man Sweater, but then, I'm not trying to get with any of them.

So back to the Party Pants, if you will.

I had just stepped into the club, and before I saw his face, the blinding power of the Party Pants' glare burned several holes through my (slightly tired) tube top, forcing me to rethink the barely fizzling sparks I was feeling before. Would things improve once the pants were removed? Or would the emotional anguish caused by the Party Pants dominate all further situations?

Of course it would. I look to the past. To the cultural identity-challenged white boy with a synthetic hair weave, to the countless saggy white BVDs, to the lawyer with a Noe Valley lesbian haircut and too many pairs of soft brown shoes. I look to the L.A. DJ who showered with fuchsia loofah gloves, which made me think he wanted to fuck Alejandro instead of me. And of course there was the hottie I met one night on the dance floor whom I later invited to stay at my old shack in Santa Cruz. When he stepped off Caltrain, he was no longer wearing that cute beanie he had on the night we met and instead revealed an instant erection-killer: the eternally wrong bowl cut. I tried to ice him out of my home all weekend, but since he had traveled by train, I felt kind of bad. But not bad enough to give him any. I mean, let's be real.