Lives Of T-Shirts: Stains And Shame
The lives of my t-shirts are usually pretty strenuous and uncomfortable. In fact, I would have to say that there is an audible sigh of relief from t-shirts that I don’t buy, and shrieks of anguish from the t-shirts that I do end up purchasing. I don’t speak the secret language of t-shirts, or anything…but I can imagine their screams, all the same.
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.
The first torture you endure when you are chosen is that you are pulled halfway over my head and then stretched out with my elbows before you’re allowed to be pulled down over my torso. There is a simple reason for this practice: I am terribly fat and I need my t-shirts stretched out. Don’t judge me.
Once you’re completely stretched out of shape, you are then smoothed over with my hands…as if that ever has worked to get wrinkled out of t-shirts. You then get to enjoy breakfast with me, as it is almost certain that you will have part of it dropped down onto you. You’ll be marked with a dark grease spot for the rest of the day, and I really won’t care that much at all.
T-shirts are always going to serve one major use, and that is to hide my body from the ever-lustful eyes of chubby-chasers everywhere. A secondary, less-known role you may serve as my t-shirt is one of sanitation. This is a super-important aspect of your existence as my shirt, because I REALLY hate getting stuff on my hands. It would be a waste of your absorbency not to wipe my hands off on you.
Depending on the severity of your appearance, you may end up going back into the “clean” clothes mound at the bottom of my bed. It is entirely possible that you did not suffer too many noticeable stains and can be worn again the next day. If this is so, then you are one of the lucky t-shirts. The unlucky t-shirts must go…to the wash.
When you think that all of your pain and suffering is almost at an end, there is one more surprise in store for my t-shirts at the end of a long day of spaghetti spatters and spills. I may be gross, but I at least try to maintain a semblance of cleanliness at the beginning of the day. This requires the hottest, most chemical-laden washing machine torture ever committed against a t-shirt. Truly, the Fates must be cruel.
If you believe that everything has a soul and that you may one day be reincarnated as something awesome, like a cheerleader’s bicycle seat, then you want to live as chaste and pure of a life as you possibly can. In a world like that, hell is awaiting at the bottom of a pile of my gross, dirty t-shirts.
If you need to know more about t-shirts check out t-shirts for a great example.