P: That’s a cute shirt.
By: Melissa Beining
It’s everywhere. It follows.
It can’t be categorized, yet it’s instantly recognizable. It’s inexplicable—yet, undeniable, too. Every time I think of it, something beckons from inside: that unflaggable, unknowable animal we call taste rears its head again.
It’s a really cute shirt. You know the one.
It calls to me. I’ve tried to ignore it, I’ve obfuscated in vain. I’ve googled “clothing supply chains” in a desperate attempt to enliven some moral aversion in my breast.
Nevertheless, the shirt litters my Pinterest boards like solo cups in the street after a block party, like fish on the deck of a boat after Jesus needed to prove a point. And when I picture in my mind’s eye the ideal female avatar to which I constantly aspire, she’s wearing the shirt. In fact, the shirt is integral to the avatar’s appeal: her aura is ethereal and her bangs don’t get greasy, so the shirt lets you know she’s still grounded. It’s the shirt that assures you she has a real human personality.
Because at the end of the day, that’s what a shirt is—an interface with the world around you. A shirt speaks for you to the people you pass but with whom you will never have the chance to converse. And this shirt—this one like no other—screams in perfect harmony with the one I hear inside.
CP: Not with your boobs.
By: The Physical Form To Which My Consciousness Is Inextricably Bound
Mm yeah, no, sorry. Buy it for your sister?
