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.
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'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.
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.
Let us all hope for your sake that people never get reincarnated into inanimate objects. Most people are good, but a few may be awful enough to be sent back to earth as one of the t-shirts belonging to a socially awkward, disorganized, fat nerd.
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'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.
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.
Let us all hope for your sake that people never get reincarnated into inanimate objects. Most people are good, but a few may be awful enough to be sent back to earth as one of the t-shirts belonging to a socially awkward, disorganized, fat nerd.
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