My Shirt’s Intentions


Primed for a gravy stain, my shirt just sat on my torso like it actually wanted to lose its integrity as an unsullied fashion statement. I didn’t notice at the time, but this shirt had been begging for a distinguishing feature ever since I bought it. I recall a close shave with some bleach that nearly poured into the washing machine and ruined every stitch of dark-colored clothing I had, but I was able to smack the bottle away before it could do any damage (at least to the clothes). Ever since then (and this is all in retrospect, as I had no idea of my shirt’s intentions until just a few seconds ago), I’ve felt this primal urge to drip something damning on myself when at the dinner table (or better yet, while eating a precariously-perched meal on my favorite recliner), rendering this once-generic garment wholeheartedly unique by virtue of an unprecedented stain motif.

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