Hi there internet people, I love ya.
A good Wednesday to you, hope your week is going well. Today, I wrote a little bit about nothing, but managed to llink to entries ranging back some five years. So, even though today's content may not be all that stunning, hopefully you can poke around the links and find something to kill those five minutes you count on sounds familiar for. Enjoy it.
This morning when I got out of the shower, pulled some boxers over my dusted junk, and headed into the closet to decide what I’d wear to work, I was happy to see that the clothing fairy had paid my two rungs of clothes a visit. The pair of jeans that fit me best (not from an external point of view, where they are saggy and bunchy in the wrong places, but from the vantage of my own personal comfort wearing them) had magically materialized – I’d been unable to find them for a couple weeks now – and I discovered an orangey-kinda-salmon collared shirt that seemed new to me.
Intrigued, I pulled the coral-colored thing off the hanger and held it up to my undershirt-clad chest for a quick check in the mirror. “Hmmm… not bad, feels ‘Florida’ to me,” I thought. I unbuttoned a couple buttons around the neck and pulled it on over my t-shirt, smiling at myself in the mirror, a pink-orange Don Johnson air about me. “Yeah, this shirt makes me look so ‘breezy,’” I thought to myself, knowing it was the perfect adjective.
Anyway, since I don’t really build a ton of variety into my weekly rotation of clothes, I was happy to have assembled something I felt “breezy” in. I felt like I belonged beachside somewhere, sipping an umbrella’d drink and eating fish or something. As I strode confidently into the living room to get some coffee, pack up the laptop, and head out to work – Sharaun noticed my shirt. “You know there’s a grease-stain right in the middle of that shirt, right?”
Tragedy! Sadness! Crushing disappointment!
First let me say that I hate grease stains. It’s the stain that’s not a stain. Just a tiny little piece of fabric that somehow now just a little darker than the rest, a bit of permanent wetness that seemingly nothing can salvage. I get these stains on my shirts all the time, maybe because I eat a lot of greasy things, maybe because I’m a sloppy eater, maybe I’m just sloppy and greasy… the particulars aren’t really that important here. Thing is, I hate these stains. They inevitably draw the eye, and they’re more frustrating than an overt stain of say red ketchup or brown coffee – they just sit there, almost-hidden… making you look bad and sloppy and simultaneously decrying your love for, and poor handling of, greasy food.
Anyway, sure enough – there was a small dark splotch right over the center of my sternum. Sighing, I lamented, “Oh man I thought this shirt was brand new, I don’t even remember ever wearing it before.” “You did, once,” she replied, “Remember you got it for Christmas in Florida, and that same day you dripped hot-wing grease on it.” “Stupid and delicious hot-wings, being all greasy,” I cursed in my head. Having already convinced myself I was some Miami Beach ladies man in the thing, though, I decided to wear it anyway. I mean, I have to wear a badge to work in the end, and as suave as that makes me look – the stupid lanyard that hangs it from my neck also does a fair job covering the stain. And, let’s face it, Don Johnson never had to pick up ladies wearing this thing around his neck (Man, that hair! Thank goodness for September 25th, 2003).
'Night online compatriots, I have deep emotions in my chest when I think of you. Until tomorrow.