Behold:
That would be public. And right there, in public, in the diaper and knee high tube socks? Sucking on a Co’Cola? That would be me. It's true: most (fashion) abusers were (fashion) abused themselves.
For bonus, here is a picture of the car I grew up being ferried around in, with damn black pleather seats that would achieve near-melting temperatures in the South Louisiana summer and cause searing pain to my young legs—almost entirely unprotected by my early ’80s short shorts (but at least by then I had shorts, right?). (I write all this with a feeling of fondness, of course.)
That's me in the back seat, about the same age you are as I write this (a few months short of 2 years), probably WTFing.
