The musical talents of Jessica Simpson keep Orihime from insanity sometimes.
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Orihime unties her hair. She peels off high heels from her feet, now red from a day of being abused. She unzips her stupid pinstripe pencil skirt, strips her legs of nylons, tosses her jacket aside, unbuttons her white blouse and ditches the Victoria's Secret push-up without padding bra on the floor. A matching thong is frowned at and stomped on vigorously on the floor in a moment of temporary insanity.
A camisole, a pair of too-long sweatpants with no elastic in the waist (slutty but comfortable), socks with a hole in the toe. She brushes her hair and lets it flutter around her, kinked and loose and a little bit ratty.
"I'm so sick of being uniform." she muses, picking over her CD collection and refusing CD after CD, before finally settling on a song by Jessica Simpson, "These Boots Were Made For Walking".
Granted, her social life would go beyond death should anyone find out, but she was willing to risk it. Musical quality be damned: she wanted to enjoy herself without giving a shit what anyone else thought.
Jumping over the couch, she scored herself some ice cream and licked it off her spoon as she danced to the song, bumping her hips and bouncing her shoulders. This world was one she hadn't been to in awhile, a world without staples and forms and bosses and stupid pinstripe skirts and Victoria's Secret push up without padding bras and matching thongs to stomp upon vigorously.
Dancing to cheap mock-country, dressed in stained, ill-fitting clothes, and eating unlimited ice cream, Orihime passed the night away. One night of relaxation, one night where she committed no sins, one night where she just enjoyed herself, purely and simply.
One night where she let go.