I, Your Ratty Underwear, being of sound mind and tattered body, request that from this day forward, no advanced interventions of resuscitation be performed to prolong my life including sewing, mending, reweaving, stapling, hot glue gunning, patching with iron-on or duct tape, soldering, or welding.

I, Your Ratty Underwear, further request no life-sustaining treatments be used to restore my former pristine state, including handwashing, bleaching, washing on delicate, washing on heavy duty, disinfecting, boiling in lye, power washing.

I, Your Ratty Underwear, give my consent to die a natural death. I do not wish to be handed-down, repurposed, or upcycled into some twee Etsy project you have in mind but will never pursue. I request no efforts be made to reincarnate me into a pet toy or potpourri sachet just because you feel bad sending textile waste to the landfill. I request you wake up and realize there are bigger fires to put out in the name of saving the environment. There’s actually a wild fire behind you right now. Can you toss me in it? I, Your Ratty Underwear, consent to being cremated, immediately.

May this document serve as advanced directive to let me die with dignity. I am in a terminal condition. My elasticity, along with my will to live, is gone. There is no returning to the cute, flirty shape you bought me in, high on the hopes I’d zest up your sex life. That dream is dead too. Please let us all die with dignity.

I, Your Ratty Underwear, do not want to be kept alive by life-sustaining machines or misplaced pride that you still fit into me after fourteen years. Just like your rear end, underwear stretches, sometimes to three times its size (also just like your rear end). I am not body shaming. I am, however, character shaming. You’re a grown woman. What does it say to the world, or the one and a half sexual partners you will have this year, that you’re okay covering your privates with what is essentially a dish rag with leg holes? It is my further dying wish to kick you while you are down. I consent to break it to you that being with you is no longer fun, nor dry, and I’ve lost all respect for you. I barely had any for your pelvic floor muscle strength to begin with.

Should this DNR order make you feel bad about yourself and every choice you’ve made in life, then what can I say? I’m just being honest. Like I urge you to be with yourself for once. Like, seriously.

If, ultimately, you abide my wishes and let me decease, it is important that my spiritual beliefs be respected. As a descendent of cotton, for my final resting place, I’d like to be torn up and scattered in the crop fields of South East Asia where I was born. However, I know you will never take me there. You don’t have the money, frequent flier miles and certainly not the right undergarments. So instead, I ask that you toss me out along with dirty take-out cartons the next time you order from Pho 87.

Signed this 27th day of May, 2025,
Your Ratty Underwear