I posted this at Craigslist:
I was at the Tremont Laundromat, which incidentally, didn’t have raw sewage flooding out the front door today, and after I brought my clothes back to my apartment I found it. Yes, it. At first I thought I’d inherited a raggedy piece of pink dryer lint, but upon closer inspection I discovered that it was, in fact, your thong. Not just any thong, though. Your thong. This one is also, apparently, made of cheesecloth. The little bits of fabric that approximate covering are only distinguishable by being slightly wider than the actual thong, and a lesser shade of pink. Also, completely sheer.
Wearing see-through underwear [if one could be said to actually “wear” this item, and if a thong counts as “underwear”] is something of a conundrum. Roland Barthes’s essay Strip-tease may offer some insight into the paradoxical nature of covering that is, in fact, not covering; but I think it is rather obvious that this thong serves as little more than garnish for a carefully orchestrated rapprochement between various and sundry genitalia.
Stealing a page from Duchamp, I have taken to wearing your thong on my head, with the little triangle doohicky acting as a nose-guard. Thankfully this undergarment had been washed before I attempted this experiment. As a nose-warmer, the thong lacks a certain efficacy that I can only attribute to its screen-door like consistency.
Currently, your thong is pinned to my bulletin board, between a picture of my first dog and a political flyer from the Ward 13 Councilman.
In any case, Miss, if you would like me to facilitate the return of this sexually charged undergarment you may send me an email and I am sure that an agreement can be reached.