I Just Want My Pants Back

Last year, around this time, summertime dubbed laziness and my sister and my mother purchased a book of everyone’s choice. I got I Just Want My Pans Back by David J. Rosen, which was unanimous in my pros against my cynicism against a triplet of MTV books. I guess the lack of a underlining mainstream and the general reality of the plot captured me. I enjoyed the typical egression of tying the climax into an epiphany because his realistic and well-written scenarios kept me turning. The banter at the bar, the leisure at his job, the opinions of his refrigerator intercourse. I saw myself in a nook and cranny as he glided down Nolita, inebriated by the opaque lights and other elements of intake. His similes were modern as he comically related back to renown figures. I interpreted his relationship with his relic neighbor Patty to be a little Finding Forrester but I appreciated the characterization, nevertheless. I’d have been disappointed if he was rolling blunts with his relatable, same-page neighbor. Not to mention the actual growth one gains when surrounding himself with a more traversed and conversant person. Rosen did his literary work and deemed himself a recipient of excelling in natural creativity. I advise this novel and the movie when I make it.