Standing in the alley that night, I witnessed a ******.

She wore a pink polka-dot skirt that barely covered her supple, smooth thighs. On top, she wore a brown turtleneck sweater, and on her feet, Air Jordan 4 retro trainers in yellow.

I was confused. Who was her stylist?

I had to ask.
"Hey, lady, what’s up with your outfit?"

She was a pretty filly, to be fair, with soft blonde hair and loud, vibrant blue eyes that suggested mischief and intrigue. Her voluptuous frame was being drastically let down by the clothes she was wearing.

"I love all these items I wear, sir," she retorted, smiling and raising an eyebrow. "Each one represents a time in my life when I was happy and things were exciting and fun."

Puzzled, I pressed for more. "But nothing matches."

She let out a howl of excited laughter.
"Who are you, the fashion police? Some people carry their problems. I carry my achievements."

And off she went, swaying her ample hips as she slinked out of the alley.

Did she really ****** that outfit, or had she had the right outfit on all along?

I went home and attempted to pick out memories that brought me happiness.

Standing naked as I was born, I realized a trip to the shopping mall was in order.