Heyyyy, girl. It’s me: Low-Rise Jeans, returning after a decade of R&R in the back of Paris Hilton’s closet. Yes, it was painful being the first-ever victim of cancel culture. I had to rough it out for years, watching boot-cut, mom jeans, and overalls have their silly little moment in the sun. Like, really, overalls?! We’re basically one step away from Addison Rae modeling a bankruptcy barrel for Teen Vogue.

But whatever. The day you’ve dreaded since the eighth grade is here. Like a spray-tanned phoenix, I am rising from the ashes, ready to traumatize a new generation of tweens.

What’s wrong? I see you’re not convinced. Well, perk up, buttercup. You should be excited! We had some good times together, back in the day. Going to the mall, learning Britney choreo, hiding from Brandon D. behind a locker in the hallway. He was so cute… did you ever end up talking to him? No? Aw, bummer. You never did have a backbone — I would know.

And, hey, remember when I made Raven G. cry in the locker room after gym class? Lol, so fun… those were the days.

Oh, chill out — don’t judge! We were just joking around. Raven is obsessed with me!

Clearly, you don’t get the picture here. I’m serious. I bet you thought you could hide forever behind a little girdle of high-rise fabric or a flowy skirt. Body positivity was fun, right?

Those days are over, babe. Like it or not, the four inches of your stomach that you hate more than anything else on God’s green earth are about to be on full display all summer long. And so is your butt-crack, probably, if you ever have to grab anything or sit down anywhere or walk more than ten feet, ever.

I’m about to have an iron-clad grip on this country’s camel toe. And I am not letting go anytime soon. What, why is your jaw so wide? Did I say something weird? I don’t hear it. I missed the Trump era, remember?

Anyway, speaking of camel toes, I haven’t gone all this time as a social pariah without doing a little reflection. I’m not a monster. And one of the things I regret most about my middle school days — which, of course, I cannot be held accountable for — is how gendered I was. I really split my audience by relentlessly targeting teen girls. And hey, as far as teen girl targeters go, we could do a lot worse than Low-Rise Jeans.

But the point is, I’m not making that mistake again. This time, I know I can cover more ground — and more ass. From here on out, nobody is safe from my wrath: ladies, theydies, and Zaydies alike. You’re all gonna have to stuff yourselves into me, like a giant bag of Jell-O in two cylindrical concrete casings.

Why are you crying? I really don’t understand why you’re so resistant to my long-awaited return. Total narc behavior! I guess that’s why Brandon D. was never into you… you just don’t have the confidence to put yourself out there.

Well, fine, you can stay at home and lurk on AIM for the rest of your life. Or you can pop three Tums, grab your favorite Abercrombie & Fitch graphic tee, and hit the town like it’s a 2006 school dance and Lydia T. just challenged you to a “My Humps” dance battle.

The choice is yours. I have to go polish my butterfly clips and find a tube of Lip Smackers, but call my Motorola flip if you need a ride. I would totally invite Raven G., but my mom’s minivan probably doesn’t have space.

Prepare yourselves, or whatever. Because at midnight, the dead low-rise.