My bluejeans are blue. Not black. Not green.
My Bluejeans are classic cut. No skinny jeans. No low-riders.
My bluejeans are all too long. Always rolled up two turns.
My bluejeans are worn until they are worn out. Then they become cut-offs. Or quilts.
My bluejeans usually have grass stains on the knees. Or handprints of flour on the rear.
My bluejeans live in the good ol' US of A with 1 husband, 4 kids, 1 puppy, 34 chickens and 19 rabbits, 5 goldfish, and 1 kitten. We live east of the Mississippi, north of the Mason-Dixon line, high up enough to escape floods, but low enough that it’s too hard to push a stroller up the mountain.
My bluejeans have optimistic dreams of living self-sufficiently on 80 acres, miles away from civilization, but for now, me and my jeans reside on 1/3 of an acre, and work outside the home. While I'm grateful for my job, I would rather just stay at home in my bluejeans.