He came in wearing dirt-smeared overalls. The screen door rocked back and forth behind him and the warm summer breeze came through, permeating the house from the floor to the ceiling.
Although as an overall rule i’m not the most partial to overall; they are taddy, baggy, rather gnatty, and often rather uncomfy. So to this day i find myself rather contrite with these goshdarn overalls.
I always thought those things were so childish. Especially when we were kids. But now that we’re older, and he’s grown up a little, okay, a lot, there’s something different. Something sexy about how they look on him. About how they fit perfectly. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to take them off of him. Sometimes it’s slow in my mind, sometimes it’s ravenous and lustful. But regardless, I still wonder. I just hope after all these years, maybe he feels the same way about me as I do about him. Sometimes I wonder if he even knows who I am or that I’ve come back.
Over all, I’ve worn 1 pair of overalls. They’re stained with adolescents and a feverish love for my mother. Much like my mother, my overalls are lost in a pile of tarnished memories. And I refuse to publish search. I refuse to find.
I refuse to write about overalls. I mean. Come on. What the heck. Overalls? What can come to mind besides farmers and Asian girls that wear trendy-versions of the old beaten things? I mean pants that attach above… I suppose it’s not such a bad idea after all but they’re really so very obsolete nowadays. I mean. Why would I even want to write about overalls?
ooveralls are the things mario wears and the things that are really 90s and single slash motivated mothers wear and sit with their kids at home and make sammiches and watch pokemon with them. the y are all over hecne the name and that expalins the name really
I remember wearing overalls when I was 4 years old at Springbank Gardens, They were Oskhosh, and I spilled ice cream all over them. I think I cried, but my mom spilled ice cream all over her shirt, and then we laughed it off.
ive never actually owned a pair of overalls, but then again, is it really a pair of overalls, if the fact of the matter is.. its on a set of one… er not a set really just a singular entity of course.. I think they are like pants. can they be like jean material? or whatever? I dunno.
Overalls look funny. They are big. Not very fitting. Why did it became such a sex-symbol to have someone wearing only overalls and nothing else?? I wonder what’s so sexy in that.
The first woman I loved stabbed me in the finger with a pencil when I was ten-years old in fifth grade. The manifestation of my physical longing was because of this young woman, Courtney Conrad, and was the immediate result of a wardrobe malfunction, if that’s what you call newly useless clothing in the wake of young person’s growth spurt. I believe it’s continued usage is more commonly referred to as “Parental Ingenuity.”
In any case, on the day in question, Courtney, who was the tallest girl in Mrs. Clements class, was wearing a pair of her older brother’s overalls, as she had suffered the misfortune of outgrowing every pair of jeans she owned. To pair with this, she wore a tight pink teeshirt — also outgrown — and so between the top of her overalls and the bottom of her shirt showed a healthy portion of her midriff.
I had thought Courtney Conrad to be the woman of my dreams since the first time I liad eyes on her in fourth grade, however, in the wake of my exposure to midriff saturated music television (remember Christina Aguilera, Brittany Spears, and the Spice Girls?) I found myself hypnotized by the sight of her tummy every time she raised her hand, or twisted around to talk to Haley Chafin, or left her seat to walk to the classroom’s pencil sharpener.
As my own growth had stagnated (likely because of the over-distributed and under-tested Adderall I was prescribed to) I was several inches shorter than Courtney and so terrified to speak to her about the nature of my true feelings, which was the overwhelming desire to blow a raspberry or to play bongos on her stomach. The truth was, I didn’t know what I wanted to do to her. I just wanted to live happily in the space between her and her brother’s overalls, forever.
It happened during a pop-quiz for our Geography chapter, as everyone in the class was bent forward over their papers shielding their answers from any potential cheaters, which more than likely would have been me. Unable to take my eyes off Courtney for more than a few minutes at a time (even in the midst of a question about which layer of earth’s crust was liquid) I looked over and saw it by the grace of a sag in the baggy denim, the top of Courtney’s underwear. They were pink, and polka dotted, with a frilly white lining along the top. It took everything in my power not to write “My Heart” for which layer of the earth was composed entirely of molten hot magma. There was fire inside me, and a sudden unbearable tightness in chest — and my underpants. Oh God, No, I realized, in my charming elastic khakis: I was the unproud owner of a shameful adolescent boner.
Trying to be discreet, I reached under my desk for my textbook and thrust it over the top of my infinitesimal erection to try and press it down. But the little monster wouldn’t budge. I knew fair well what was happening to me, no thanks to my “progressive” New-Age parents, who took it on themselves to teach me about sex and the reproductive organs when I was five years old, effectively scarring me for the rest of my natural born life. My next idea came from my father, who had a habit of walking into our kitchen in the morning’s during breakfast in his underpants, which did little to conceal his monstrous morning excitement. My would often remark, laughingly, “Kevin, do something about that, would you?” My father would laugh back with his own stock answer: “Better splash some cold water on it.”
Keeping the book over the front of my khakis, I ran from my seat to the restroom, conveniently located behind the cubbies housing our backpacks and our art supplies. “Ian, what do you think you’re doing!?” Mrs. Clements shouted, as I rounded the corner and slammed the bathroom door behind me. I threw my pants and Lion King briefs to the floor (which, both being only elastic, quickened the process), turned on the sink, and frantically began splashing cold water on my eager member. However, What I failed to remember in my haste to the restroom was to lock the door behind me. I heard thundering footsteps, and Mrs. Clements shouting, “Ian Rowe, you’re getting an F for cheating!” and then the bathroom door swing wide open to the sink running, my pants at my feet, my penis nodding up and down, a puddle on the floor, and my right hand, soaking wet. Mrs. Clements threw her hand over her mouth in time to muffle an “OH!” which made the “whumph” of a pillow hitting a mattress, and she slammed the door shut and spoke to me through it in a muffled tone. “Ian. Make yourself presentable and get out of the bathroom this instant.”
I dried myself with several paper towels and pulled my pants up, and, having been unable to get my passion under control, left the restroom holding the textbook over my crotch. Mrs. Clements sent me to the office, and I was given a referral for “Masturbating during a Geology quiz.” In spite of my trying to explain myself, no one believed that I was only trying to control myself in the most logical way I knew how. (Truth be told, I wouldn’t discover masturbation until almost a full year later.) I was instructed to see the guidance counselor once a week until my compulsive behavior was deemed improved, and, as a direct result of this, my Adderall dosage was increased.
Due to the nature of gossip in the primary school setting, word of my lavatory activities spread, and I was soon given the endearing nickname “Boner Boy.” Come Valentines day that same scholastic year (the preceding events having occurred in October), thanks to the mind-numbing effects of mood stabilizers and the encouragement of elementary guidance counseling, I worked up the courage to give Courtney Conrad a valentine, which featured the two rabbit stars of the popular cartoon movie “Space Jam.” When I approached her with it, she raised her hands as if I was holding a gun at her. “Ew,” she said, scowling. “I don’t want that from you, I don’t know where that’s been!” Red faced, and unwilling to accept the shame of having to walk back to my desk with it, I placed it on her desk. She promptly brushed it off as though it were a cockroach, or some other disease ridden bug. The other students took notice, and started to laugh at me. Frozen in place by the stupidity of social pressures, I picked the valentine up again and placed it back on her desk. She swiped it off her desk again and picked up the pencil in a threatening manner. “I said I DON’T WANT IT,” she growled. “Too bad!” I yelled, and picked it back up, slamming it onto her desk, where I held it in place with my left hand, fingers splayed, as if to show her the brevity of my seriousness. Pushing back from her desk, she raised the pencil high above her head and said, “If you don’t move your hand, I’ll stab you!” “Do it!” I said, on the verge of tears. “I don’t care!” The rest of the class now huddled around us, silent, blocking Courtney’s and my standoff from the teacher, who had risen from her desk to see what all of the commotion was about. Making note of all the expectant faces around her, Courtney hesitated, and for a moment I thought I had won. Then, with the tremendous force of a hormonal girl in the early throngs of puberty, she brought the pencil down with a thud, stabbing me in the middle finger, and breaking off its tip in my flesh.
your overalls are faded and hide just the right parts of you,
no talk of genitalia, I mean the scars and farthest
parts of your sadness. I am hearing your tears
between the heartbeats, like a steady patter of rain
when I’m thirsting, thirsting for you.
When painting I wear overalls. They stop me from getting my clothes filthy and covered in paint, which really doesn’t come out in the wash! Sometimes, I like to hide in my overalls as it smells homely and full of layers of life I have created. To me my overalls are my art.
Grandpa. Dad. Poppi. Vintage. Little kids in black and white photos barefoot. Little boys carrying a fishing pole with the pants legs rolled up, no shoes on and a bucket. Overalls remind me of the old days.
My kids always wore overalls. They were great because they were like having handles on the kids. The kids always called them their osh kiosh bygoshes. They were really cute and its a wonderful memory.
my mom would dress me in overalls as a kid so i always looked like a little farm girl. I cant wait to have kids of my own so i can carry them around looking like little farm girls just like i did as a child.
My mother used to wear overalls all the time, as though she was some farmer who lived in the middle of a valley in a teeny tiny Californian town. It was probably because of her fondness for the comfortable denim rompers than I find them comforting somehow. Familiar, really.
Overalls are the attire of the laborers, the workers, the ones that don’t have a say in what they want. They wear overalls because it’ll better them in the task at hand, it’ll make the task at hand nothing but simpler.
They Laugh At Me
In My Overalls
While They Look Flashy in Their Revealing Dresses.
They Snicker
At My One-Piece Swimsuit,
While They Bounce About in Their Small Bikinis,
They Sneer
At the Worn Ragged Jeans,
As They Strut Down the Halls
In Skirts That Hardly Reach Their Thighs.
Teenagers Are So Strange…
I Can’t Wait Until I’m Not One.
Overalls are very fashionable. I like overalls. They come in many colors, such as blue, yellow, red, orange, gray and more! Farmers mainly where overalls when doing things such as farming and going out to dinner with their family. Many welfare people were overalls. People who wear overalls are outdated.
“Yippeeeeee!!!” the children yelled as they ran down the steep hill, dancing and rolling in the grass, staining their overalls. “Kids! Lemonade!” yelled their mother, as they ran back toward the house.
Those were the good ol’ days, before the Volcanic war had started.
I vaguely remember wearing overalls as a kid. I never liked them. I am more picky when it comes to the clothes I wear, and I remember crying to my mother every time she put overalls on me, that I could not wear them because they were ugly, uncomfortable, etc.
I had bright orange overalls (or dungarees as we call them) when I slipped out the back door of where my mother worked, at the sports place. Past the place where the elderly played bowls, and the tennis courts. All the way to the tiny park, with the little house and set of swings, and the roundabout. It was a foggy day and it had been raining, I remembered that. Mum had said that I couldn’t go out because it had rained, so I thought I’d find it by myself.
It was one of my earliest memories.
I didn’t see anyone all the way to the park and once I got there, everything was still wet and I didn’t really want to go on the swings any more. But I stayed there. Then I saw grandad and he picked me up and took me back inside.
Once mum had found me she said “I was so worried!”
And I replied, “I was worried too, Mummy!”
Her overalls were covered in dirt, a hard days work on her hands. She pulled her hair into a braid and tucked her jean straps into her pocket as she walked away from the barn. The house was dark, her father must still be in town. She took off her work boots at the front door and turned on the porch light.
when i was younger i used to wear overalls without a shirt underneath. It was more comfortable for me that way i guess. Looking back it’s kind of embarrassing, but i was just a kid, so i suppose it’s not really that big of a deal.
i like overalls. I used to hate them when I was a kid. They were always so uncomfortable, and I don’t know why I thought that. It might of been that I was growing so fast that they were tight on me lengthwise, that is very uncomfortable. I have the same problem now with one piece bathing suits because I’m so tall. Anyways, I wish I had a pair of overalls now, they’d probably be comfy.
the western land looked dry. no more water for crops, no more pesticides. everything was gone, after the bomb fell he thought he would be one of the lucky ones to survive. now he only thinks that he’s cursed by his survival.
overalls can come in many colours and i like them in jeans and they are comfortable and useful if they have pockets and are good for hard work like painting and artwork and you can lounge around in them and many people wear them ! :)
As I walked down to the store in the impossibly-yet-somehow-possible heat, I was struck by my neighbor who, despite the humidity, was garbed in dark blue overalls. I honestly couldn’t tell if she was making a statement of sorts or simply being a complete and utter fool. Then again, she walked into school during the winter wearing shorts and crocheted tights, so perhaps this was simply a regular occurrence.
não faço ideia do que é para escrever aqui. só tenho um minuto, que está a passar. e tenho cenas para fazer enquanto esse minuto passa. isto até giro. deixa-nos a pensar, acho eu… e nunca mais acaba!
when i was little my mother always used to dress me up in overalls. i have loads of pictured where i’m standing in the water paddling like some red neck with them rolled up to my thighs and no top inside. i think that wearing them when you older is quite hilarious and shouldn’t be done!
Compromised of everything, collected throughout. Put together, holding the masses together. Overalls, the world is covered with overalls. Overall, America is one big pool of beautiful dreams and unaccomplished goals Overall, people are just one big leap into the journey of nature.
Yeehaw! Mah new overalls are just the thing for the this summer on th’ farm! I cin tell you… I’ll be a pickin’ them taters and whatnot like never before with these beauties!
One strap on her overalls dangled, unhooked, just the way she liked it. She jumped from bar to bar on the playground, her pigtails bouncing along beside her like two clouds on either side of the sun. She was bright, and she would rise each morning and live.
“Hey, would you pass me those eggs?” I asked him, feeling completely out of my element. Here I was, standing in my grandmother’s farm in the middle of a godforsaken town in Montana, dropping chicken eggs into a basket. Draped across my fair skin was the most disgusting pair of denim overalls I had ever had the displeasure of coming in contact with. They were given to me by my lovely grandmother to compensate for the clothes I was forced to give away. She calls it charity. I call it abuse.
He came in wearing dirt-smeared overalls. The screen door rocked back and forth behind him and the warm summer breeze came through, permeating the house from the floor to the ceiling.
Although as an overall rule i’m not the most partial to overall; they are taddy, baggy, rather gnatty, and often rather uncomfy. So to this day i find myself rather contrite with these goshdarn overalls.
I always thought those things were so childish. Especially when we were kids. But now that we’re older, and he’s grown up a little, okay, a lot, there’s something different. Something sexy about how they look on him. About how they fit perfectly. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to take them off of him. Sometimes it’s slow in my mind, sometimes it’s ravenous and lustful. But regardless, I still wonder. I just hope after all these years, maybe he feels the same way about me as I do about him. Sometimes I wonder if he even knows who I am or that I’ve come back.
Over all, I’ve worn 1 pair of overalls. They’re stained with adolescents and a feverish love for my mother. Much like my mother, my overalls are lost in a pile of tarnished memories. And I refuse to publish search. I refuse to find.
I refuse to write about overalls. I mean. Come on. What the heck. Overalls? What can come to mind besides farmers and Asian girls that wear trendy-versions of the old beaten things? I mean pants that attach above… I suppose it’s not such a bad idea after all but they’re really so very obsolete nowadays. I mean. Why would I even want to write about overalls?
ooveralls are the things mario wears and the things that are really 90s and single slash motivated mothers wear and sit with their kids at home and make sammiches and watch pokemon with them. the y are all over hecne the name and that expalins the name really
I remember wearing overalls when I was 4 years old at Springbank Gardens, They were Oskhosh, and I spilled ice cream all over them. I think I cried, but my mom spilled ice cream all over her shirt, and then we laughed it off.
ive never actually owned a pair of overalls, but then again, is it really a pair of overalls, if the fact of the matter is.. its on a set of one… er not a set really just a singular entity of course.. I think they are like pants. can they be like jean material? or whatever? I dunno.
they can be small, they can be big, but everyone deserves ’em!
Overalls look funny. They are big. Not very fitting. Why did it became such a sex-symbol to have someone wearing only overalls and nothing else?? I wonder what’s so sexy in that.
I have short overalls. They are big and baggy and they always fall down. I love them though. They are so comfortable. They used to be my mothers.
The first woman I loved stabbed me in the finger with a pencil when I was ten-years old in fifth grade. The manifestation of my physical longing was because of this young woman, Courtney Conrad, and was the immediate result of a wardrobe malfunction, if that’s what you call newly useless clothing in the wake of young person’s growth spurt. I believe it’s continued usage is more commonly referred to as “Parental Ingenuity.”
In any case, on the day in question, Courtney, who was the tallest girl in Mrs. Clements class, was wearing a pair of her older brother’s overalls, as she had suffered the misfortune of outgrowing every pair of jeans she owned. To pair with this, she wore a tight pink teeshirt — also outgrown — and so between the top of her overalls and the bottom of her shirt showed a healthy portion of her midriff.
I had thought Courtney Conrad to be the woman of my dreams since the first time I liad eyes on her in fourth grade, however, in the wake of my exposure to midriff saturated music television (remember Christina Aguilera, Brittany Spears, and the Spice Girls?) I found myself hypnotized by the sight of her tummy every time she raised her hand, or twisted around to talk to Haley Chafin, or left her seat to walk to the classroom’s pencil sharpener.
As my own growth had stagnated (likely because of the over-distributed and under-tested Adderall I was prescribed to) I was several inches shorter than Courtney and so terrified to speak to her about the nature of my true feelings, which was the overwhelming desire to blow a raspberry or to play bongos on her stomach. The truth was, I didn’t know what I wanted to do to her. I just wanted to live happily in the space between her and her brother’s overalls, forever.
It happened during a pop-quiz for our Geography chapter, as everyone in the class was bent forward over their papers shielding their answers from any potential cheaters, which more than likely would have been me. Unable to take my eyes off Courtney for more than a few minutes at a time (even in the midst of a question about which layer of earth’s crust was liquid) I looked over and saw it by the grace of a sag in the baggy denim, the top of Courtney’s underwear. They were pink, and polka dotted, with a frilly white lining along the top. It took everything in my power not to write “My Heart” for which layer of the earth was composed entirely of molten hot magma. There was fire inside me, and a sudden unbearable tightness in chest — and my underpants. Oh God, No, I realized, in my charming elastic khakis: I was the unproud owner of a shameful adolescent boner.
Trying to be discreet, I reached under my desk for my textbook and thrust it over the top of my infinitesimal erection to try and press it down. But the little monster wouldn’t budge. I knew fair well what was happening to me, no thanks to my “progressive” New-Age parents, who took it on themselves to teach me about sex and the reproductive organs when I was five years old, effectively scarring me for the rest of my natural born life. My next idea came from my father, who had a habit of walking into our kitchen in the morning’s during breakfast in his underpants, which did little to conceal his monstrous morning excitement. My would often remark, laughingly, “Kevin, do something about that, would you?” My father would laugh back with his own stock answer: “Better splash some cold water on it.”
Keeping the book over the front of my khakis, I ran from my seat to the restroom, conveniently located behind the cubbies housing our backpacks and our art supplies. “Ian, what do you think you’re doing!?” Mrs. Clements shouted, as I rounded the corner and slammed the bathroom door behind me. I threw my pants and Lion King briefs to the floor (which, both being only elastic, quickened the process), turned on the sink, and frantically began splashing cold water on my eager member. However, What I failed to remember in my haste to the restroom was to lock the door behind me. I heard thundering footsteps, and Mrs. Clements shouting, “Ian Rowe, you’re getting an F for cheating!” and then the bathroom door swing wide open to the sink running, my pants at my feet, my penis nodding up and down, a puddle on the floor, and my right hand, soaking wet. Mrs. Clements threw her hand over her mouth in time to muffle an “OH!” which made the “whumph” of a pillow hitting a mattress, and she slammed the door shut and spoke to me through it in a muffled tone. “Ian. Make yourself presentable and get out of the bathroom this instant.”
I dried myself with several paper towels and pulled my pants up, and, having been unable to get my passion under control, left the restroom holding the textbook over my crotch. Mrs. Clements sent me to the office, and I was given a referral for “Masturbating during a Geology quiz.” In spite of my trying to explain myself, no one believed that I was only trying to control myself in the most logical way I knew how. (Truth be told, I wouldn’t discover masturbation until almost a full year later.) I was instructed to see the guidance counselor once a week until my compulsive behavior was deemed improved, and, as a direct result of this, my Adderall dosage was increased.
Due to the nature of gossip in the primary school setting, word of my lavatory activities spread, and I was soon given the endearing nickname “Boner Boy.” Come Valentines day that same scholastic year (the preceding events having occurred in October), thanks to the mind-numbing effects of mood stabilizers and the encouragement of elementary guidance counseling, I worked up the courage to give Courtney Conrad a valentine, which featured the two rabbit stars of the popular cartoon movie “Space Jam.” When I approached her with it, she raised her hands as if I was holding a gun at her. “Ew,” she said, scowling. “I don’t want that from you, I don’t know where that’s been!” Red faced, and unwilling to accept the shame of having to walk back to my desk with it, I placed it on her desk. She promptly brushed it off as though it were a cockroach, or some other disease ridden bug. The other students took notice, and started to laugh at me. Frozen in place by the stupidity of social pressures, I picked the valentine up again and placed it back on her desk. She swiped it off her desk again and picked up the pencil in a threatening manner. “I said I DON’T WANT IT,” she growled. “Too bad!” I yelled, and picked it back up, slamming it onto her desk, where I held it in place with my left hand, fingers splayed, as if to show her the brevity of my seriousness. Pushing back from her desk, she raised the pencil high above her head and said, “If you don’t move your hand, I’ll stab you!” “Do it!” I said, on the verge of tears. “I don’t care!” The rest of the class now huddled around us, silent, blocking Courtney’s and my standoff from the teacher, who had risen from her desk to see what all of the commotion was about. Making note of all the expectant faces around her, Courtney hesitated, and for a moment I thought I had won. Then, with the tremendous force of a hormonal girl in the early throngs of puberty, she brought the pencil down with a thud, stabbing me in the middle finger, and breaking off its tip in my flesh.
The lead is still there to this day.
your overalls are faded and hide just the right parts of you,
no talk of genitalia, I mean the scars and farthest
parts of your sadness. I am hearing your tears
between the heartbeats, like a steady patter of rain
when I’m thirsting, thirsting for you.
When painting I wear overalls. They stop me from getting my clothes filthy and covered in paint, which really doesn’t come out in the wash! Sometimes, I like to hide in my overalls as it smells homely and full of layers of life I have created. To me my overalls are my art.
Grandpa. Dad. Poppi. Vintage. Little kids in black and white photos barefoot. Little boys carrying a fishing pole with the pants legs rolled up, no shoes on and a bucket. Overalls remind me of the old days.
My kids always wore overalls. They were great because they were like having handles on the kids. The kids always called them their osh kiosh bygoshes. They were really cute and its a wonderful memory.
I haven’t worn overalls since I was a child. Wow, I hadn’t even thought about overalls until now. Oh, sweet nostalgia. Maybe I’ll go buy a pair.
my mom would dress me in overalls as a kid so i always looked like a little farm girl. I cant wait to have kids of my own so i can carry them around looking like little farm girls just like i did as a child.
My mother used to wear overalls all the time, as though she was some farmer who lived in the middle of a valley in a teeny tiny Californian town. It was probably because of her fondness for the comfortable denim rompers than I find them comforting somehow. Familiar, really.
Overalls are the attire of the laborers, the workers, the ones that don’t have a say in what they want. They wear overalls because it’ll better them in the task at hand, it’ll make the task at hand nothing but simpler.
Old hillbilly missing one tooth. Hard worker but very stinky. My mom had a pair maybe shes a farmer. No I would wear a pair. My friend loves them.
They Laugh At Me
In My Overalls
While They Look Flashy in Their Revealing Dresses.
They Snicker
At My One-Piece Swimsuit,
While They Bounce About in Their Small Bikinis,
They Sneer
At the Worn Ragged Jeans,
As They Strut Down the Halls
In Skirts That Hardly Reach Their Thighs.
Teenagers Are So Strange…
I Can’t Wait Until I’m Not One.
Overalls are very fashionable. I like overalls. They come in many colors, such as blue, yellow, red, orange, gray and more! Farmers mainly where overalls when doing things such as farming and going out to dinner with their family. Many welfare people were overalls. People who wear overalls are outdated.
“Yippeeeeee!!!” the children yelled as they ran down the steep hill, dancing and rolling in the grass, staining their overalls. “Kids! Lemonade!” yelled their mother, as they ran back toward the house.
Those were the good ol’ days, before the Volcanic war had started.
I vaguely remember wearing overalls as a kid. I never liked them. I am more picky when it comes to the clothes I wear, and I remember crying to my mother every time she put overalls on me, that I could not wear them because they were ugly, uncomfortable, etc.
when umm… errr cant explain!!!! ahahahah
I had bright orange overalls (or dungarees as we call them) when I slipped out the back door of where my mother worked, at the sports place. Past the place where the elderly played bowls, and the tennis courts. All the way to the tiny park, with the little house and set of swings, and the roundabout. It was a foggy day and it had been raining, I remembered that. Mum had said that I couldn’t go out because it had rained, so I thought I’d find it by myself.
It was one of my earliest memories.
I didn’t see anyone all the way to the park and once I got there, everything was still wet and I didn’t really want to go on the swings any more. But I stayed there. Then I saw grandad and he picked me up and took me back inside.
Once mum had found me she said “I was so worried!”
And I replied, “I was worried too, Mummy!”
Her overalls were covered in dirt, a hard days work on her hands. She pulled her hair into a braid and tucked her jean straps into her pocket as she walked away from the barn. The house was dark, her father must still be in town. She took off her work boots at the front door and turned on the porch light.
when i was younger i used to wear overalls without a shirt underneath. It was more comfortable for me that way i guess. Looking back it’s kind of embarrassing, but i was just a kid, so i suppose it’s not really that big of a deal.
i like overalls. I used to hate them when I was a kid. They were always so uncomfortable, and I don’t know why I thought that. It might of been that I was growing so fast that they were tight on me lengthwise, that is very uncomfortable. I have the same problem now with one piece bathing suits because I’m so tall. Anyways, I wish I had a pair of overalls now, they’d probably be comfy.
the western land looked dry. no more water for crops, no more pesticides. everything was gone, after the bomb fell he thought he would be one of the lucky ones to survive. now he only thinks that he’s cursed by his survival.
overalls can come in many colours and i like them in jeans and they are comfortable and useful if they have pockets and are good for hard work like painting and artwork and you can lounge around in them and many people wear them ! :)
i slide them on… its my work uniform for the day
this means a day full of hard work
blood sweat tears dirt and sacrifice
i button each strap in preparation for the day
one by one
a promise a dedication to myself of whats to come
i breath in and walk out the door
As I walked down to the store in the impossibly-yet-somehow-possible heat, I was struck by my neighbor who, despite the humidity, was garbed in dark blue overalls. I honestly couldn’t tell if she was making a statement of sorts or simply being a complete and utter fool. Then again, she walked into school during the winter wearing shorts and crocheted tights, so perhaps this was simply a regular occurrence.
não faço ideia do que é para escrever aqui. só tenho um minuto, que está a passar. e tenho cenas para fazer enquanto esse minuto passa. isto até giro. deixa-nos a pensar, acho eu… e nunca mais acaba!
when i was little my mother always used to dress me up in overalls. i have loads of pictured where i’m standing in the water paddling like some red neck with them rolled up to my thighs and no top inside. i think that wearing them when you older is quite hilarious and shouldn’t be done!
Compromised of everything, collected throughout. Put together, holding the masses together. Overalls, the world is covered with overalls. Overall, America is one big pool of beautiful dreams and unaccomplished goals Overall, people are just one big leap into the journey of nature.
Yeehaw! Mah new overalls are just the thing for the this summer on th’ farm! I cin tell you… I’ll be a pickin’ them taters and whatnot like never before with these beauties!
One strap on her overalls dangled, unhooked, just the way she liked it. She jumped from bar to bar on the playground, her pigtails bouncing along beside her like two clouds on either side of the sun. She was bright, and she would rise each morning and live.
“Hey, would you pass me those eggs?” I asked him, feeling completely out of my element. Here I was, standing in my grandmother’s farm in the middle of a godforsaken town in Montana, dropping chicken eggs into a basket. Draped across my fair skin was the most disgusting pair of denim overalls I had ever had the displeasure of coming in contact with. They were given to me by my lovely grandmother to compensate for the clothes I was forced to give away. She calls it charity. I call it abuse.