The Awful Life And Times Of T-Shirts
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.
Just because you're a t-shirt, doesn't mean that's the only role you're going to serve all day long. I am constantly in need of something to wipe my hands on after I do such mundane tasks as pump gas, change the oil, or just eat lunch. I may be messy, but I like for my hands to stay nice and clean and t-shirts are just so...convenient.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Just because you're a t-shirt, doesn't mean that's the only role you're going to serve all day long. I am constantly in need of something to wipe my hands on after I do such mundane tasks as pump gas, change the oil, or just eat lunch. I may be messy, but I like for my hands to stay nice and clean and t-shirts are just so...convenient.
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.
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.
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.
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