snot-rags and button-ups

I roll out of bed this morning, and watch the news without my glasses on.  I felt sick last night, so all I really did when I got home was guzzle Asprin, take off my pants, wrap myself up in a blanket, and watch “America’s Funniest Home Videos” before passing out finally.

OK, I did read a bit of a Deadpool comic online earlier in the day that gave me weird Bea Arthur dreams, but whatever.

I finally get into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror.  First thought is “Damn, I look like shit.”  The second is “No, I’m pretty damn sexy, actually.”  Then I realize that I’m wearing my ‘TIL THE WHEELS FALL OFF t-shirt still.  And I don’t care.

I got this shirt, which commemorates Hot Water Music’s latest reunion show, at the show itself, with Paint It Black and Thursday, last summer.  It’s probably one of my favorite shirts, it was definitely one of my favorite shows I’ve been to in a while.  Tess and I hung out with some peeps, I got drunk and she saw me in full-blown Hot Water Music fan glory.  ‘Twas good.

I used to have a strange attachment to shirts, and was actually one of those people who’d preserve one or two specific shirts for specific occasions.  My prized Black Flag The Process Of Weeding Out shirt back in the day was more or less my “show” shirt.  I saw a lot of bands while I wore that shirt.  Even though that’s one of the worst Black Flag records ever.

Anyway, I had a point here.  As I stared at myself in the mirror before I got butt-ass and butt-ugly naked to hop in the shower and start my morning ritual of daily abulation and singing “Dead Ringer For Love”, I temporarily though;

“Shit, I ruined this shirt.  I was sick in it, I slept and sweat in it, I don’t want it to ruin too soon, get faded and stained and stiff from persperation and ripped, I want to preserve it because quite frankly, it kicks yo’momma’s ass and needs to be worn a lot more, for many more moons to come before finally being sentenced to serve the rest of its life as a ‘sleep’ shirt!”

Then I realize;  It’s just a shirt, what good is it if I can’t be comfortable in it, curled up under the comforter asleep and warm and dreaming of explosions, Mexican food, and Lifetime records?


Embrace your t-shirts, people.  Embrace the comfort of your favorite shirts and hoodies.  Unless you’re gonna get married in it, don’t preserve them in lucite, wear them with pride and the knowledge that you’ll never feel uncomfortable in them, because hey, how you gonna feel weird wearing your favorite shirt?


About Costa

Writer. College professor.
This entry was posted in band shirts, best friends, blogging, clothing, nyc, punk, random, what the fuck?. Bookmark the permalink.

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