American Apparel, we have to talk. I’ve put up with you for a good couple years now. I forgave your short-comings because I wanted to believe a place existed where I could afford to buy nice clothing and not feel guilty. I kept making excuses for you, saying the ads were “just a phase” that you would grow out of. I covered my eyes and turned up my music every time I had to walk by this:

And I tastefully hid the back of my local entertainment newspaper that would blow up ads like this on the back:

Today, American Apparel, I’m done. No more excuses. I still love the eggplant t-shirt from you that I had a smiling tofu silk-screened onto. It will always be my favourite wacky summer shirt. But I can’t take this fucked up pornographic shit anymore. It is not artistic; it’s not “edgy.” It’s ugly and objectifying and most of those clothes look horrible on anyone older than eight. There, I said it. I mean, you’re trying to bring back the unitard? Let’s say I spent all day with my legs spread wide open like your eerie underage- looking models, do you think I’d want to be wearing something that creeps up my ass?

Ok, so this didn’t come out of nowhere. It’s been simmering for a while. The last straw was finding out that your owner is a crazier and decidedly slimier version of Joe Francis. And that is saying something.

So we’re done. Don’t bother crawling back with a new line of fun-coloured socks, I am so over you.