When I go to a department store to buy new t-shirts, I hear an audible sigh of released tension when I walk past racks of t-shirts that I decided not to buy. That's because t-shirts can sense a new owner that isn't going to take care of them or treat them with any kind of dignity or respect. That horrid new owner is someone like me.
There is a massive monument dedicated to the Greek god of sloppiness at the foot of my bed in the form of two giant mounds of t-shirts. Instinctually, I know which one of these mounds is loosely dedicated to "clean" and which is for "dirty." It may seem completely random when I grab a rumpled fistful of t-shirt, but I know what I'm doing almost part of the time.
After waking up, you get to enjoy some morning stretches as one of my t-shirts. Because I am an unhealthy blob of a man, most of my t-shirts don't fit me so well anymore. This is rectified by putt my shirt on only halfway and jamming my elbows outward to literally jam the tee over my body more comfortably.
Once you have been ripped and pulled out of shape, you get to join me for breakfast. Breakfast is awesome, unless you are one of my t-shirts. Since it is early morning, I am much more of a disgusting klutz than usual, and I will undoubtedly decorate part of my shirt with a dribble of milk from my oversized cereal bowl.
The rest of your day is spent mostly functioning as t-shirts function...as clothing. A good 10% of your day, however, is spent as my personal bib/napkin. It is far too much trouble looking for an actual napkin, so you get the gritty task of cleaning undesirable messes from my fingertips. Gravy, motor oil, and bacon grease are all likely to end up as new stains that will take several washes to make disappear.
If you are a very special t-shirt, you may get the honor of being returned to the pile of clean t-shirts at the foot of my bed. This only happens when I can convince myself that I didn't stain my t-shirt to the point of ruination during the course of the day, and let's face it...that isn't very likely. One of my friends tells me that my super-hero name is "Salsa Shirt", after all.
While being worn all day by a fat guy and getting food dropped all over you may sound pretty bad, it is nothing compared with the terrible pain t-shirts must feel when they are put through a washing cycle at my house. Most people wash their cotton tees on a gentle, cold-water cycle. Cold water doesn't get fried chicken stains out of a t-shirt, so I need to wash my clothes in the extra-hot doom cycle.
Being one of my t-shirts is terrible. You are mistreated, abused, neglected, and taken for granted every day. Perhaps one day, there is a t-shirt heaven waiting for you. Right now, though, you must go through hell...and that hell exists on the back of a sweating, sloppy, fat man.
There is a massive monument dedicated to the Greek god of sloppiness at the foot of my bed in the form of two giant mounds of t-shirts. Instinctually, I know which one of these mounds is loosely dedicated to "clean" and which is for "dirty." It may seem completely random when I grab a rumpled fistful of t-shirt, but I know what I'm doing almost part of the time.
After waking up, you get to enjoy some morning stretches as one of my t-shirts. Because I am an unhealthy blob of a man, most of my t-shirts don't fit me so well anymore. This is rectified by putt my shirt on only halfway and jamming my elbows outward to literally jam the tee over my body more comfortably.
Once you have been ripped and pulled out of shape, you get to join me for breakfast. Breakfast is awesome, unless you are one of my t-shirts. Since it is early morning, I am much more of a disgusting klutz than usual, and I will undoubtedly decorate part of my shirt with a dribble of milk from my oversized cereal bowl.
The rest of your day is spent mostly functioning as t-shirts function...as clothing. A good 10% of your day, however, is spent as my personal bib/napkin. It is far too much trouble looking for an actual napkin, so you get the gritty task of cleaning undesirable messes from my fingertips. Gravy, motor oil, and bacon grease are all likely to end up as new stains that will take several washes to make disappear.
If you are a very special t-shirt, you may get the honor of being returned to the pile of clean t-shirts at the foot of my bed. This only happens when I can convince myself that I didn't stain my t-shirt to the point of ruination during the course of the day, and let's face it...that isn't very likely. One of my friends tells me that my super-hero name is "Salsa Shirt", after all.
While being worn all day by a fat guy and getting food dropped all over you may sound pretty bad, it is nothing compared with the terrible pain t-shirts must feel when they are put through a washing cycle at my house. Most people wash their cotton tees on a gentle, cold-water cycle. Cold water doesn't get fried chicken stains out of a t-shirt, so I need to wash my clothes in the extra-hot doom cycle.
Being one of my t-shirts is terrible. You are mistreated, abused, neglected, and taken for granted every day. Perhaps one day, there is a t-shirt heaven waiting for you. Right now, though, you must go through hell...and that hell exists on the back of a sweating, sloppy, fat man.
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