Being one of my t-shirts is not an easy task. You get beat up all day long and then washed improperly at some point, if washed at all, before being thrown in the "clean" pile on my floor. One of the advantages of living a completely disorganized existence is that things like laundry are really simple.
When you have the honor of being one of my t-shirts, your day begins as a wad of clothing on the floor at the foot of my bed. You may be clean, but you're most likely classified as "mostly not dirty." You are then picked up at random, sniffed thoroughly, and then picked as my very special t-shirt-of-the-day.
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.
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.
After your long, hard journey is over you are shunted from off my sweaty back and placed in the other pile of clothes in my room. This pile is for dirty t-shirts, and the like. You are far to dirty to wear again, so it's in the wash you must go. Typically, this could take several days. If you happen to join the dirty pile on wash day, however, you are in luck.
Your experience in the washing machine with the other dirty t-shirts is not a pleasant one. I have learned a long time ago that it takes really hot water to get out most food stains, so you are punished severely for my sloppiness. You will most likely shrink, but your ritual morning-stretching will return you to the appropriate shape and size.
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.
When you have the honor of being one of my t-shirts, your day begins as a wad of clothing on the floor at the foot of my bed. You may be clean, but you're most likely classified as "mostly not dirty." You are then picked up at random, sniffed thoroughly, and then picked as my very special t-shirt-of-the-day.
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.
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.
After your long, hard journey is over you are shunted from off my sweaty back and placed in the other pile of clothes in my room. This pile is for dirty t-shirts, and the like. You are far to dirty to wear again, so it's in the wash you must go. Typically, this could take several days. If you happen to join the dirty pile on wash day, however, you are in luck.
Your experience in the washing machine with the other dirty t-shirts is not a pleasant one. I have learned a long time ago that it takes really hot water to get out most food stains, so you are punished severely for my sloppiness. You will most likely shrink, but your ritual morning-stretching will return you to the appropriate shape and size.
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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