August 11, 2003 @ 10:26 p.m.
I'm trying to tell myself that my shirt falling apart and my life falling apart are not, in fact, the same things. I feel like I'm lying to me.

Ladies and gentlemen, regular readers and people who stumbled across this page in search of nude retards, I would like to request a moment's seriousness and sympathy.

My beloved and much-worn Hustler t-shirt is finally, after years of loyal service, giving up the ghost and succumbing to a pilgrimage to the Holey Land. All the yobb-hollered "phwoar!"s and "Hussssstlerrrrrrr!"s in the world will not save it in its gradual slide to Unwearable Rag status.

Some of you are on personal terms with Hustler t-shirt. I would especially ask those of you who are, to include it in your thoughts and/or prayers before you go to sleep tonight. (Wow. There I go again, encouraging people to think about my tits.)

I'm honestly really upset. I love that goddamn t-shirt. Everything about it is perfect: it's black; it's cut really well and hugs the curves just right, and the embroidered "Hustler" across the chest is in a gorgeous shade of bright pink, in standy-upy letters that feel really good to the touch. Ahem, not that I let people touch my chest, of course.

It's fitting, I suppose, that the hole has appeared right over one of my breasts, near the leg of the 'R'. Close inspection yesterday revealed that the shirt has just plain worn out; years of being stretched to buggery over my bodacious ta-tas have taken their toll.

I should probably retire the shirt now before things get really bad, but I'm emotionally attached, and also a slob (as evidenced by the fact that I noticed the hole right as I was about to go out yesterday, then proceeded to leave the house without changing). It's only a small hole, true, but THERE IS A MATCHING HOLE IN MY HEART.

As stated above, I fucking love that t-shirt. It's got history. Rather a lot of it. The kind of history that tends to leave stains, in particular. It's been my constant companion through the last two or so years, much of which is best summed up by the mantra Hey, Everything Is Funny Eventually, but some of which has not.

I'll be able to squeeze a few more wears out of it, because I am crafty and also own many black bras. But I'm still sad. In part, I must admit, because while it's received many comments and questions it its time, I've never actually gotten around to responding to the "hey, where'd you get that?" question by telling people that it was given to me for my stellar appearance in Beaver Hunt.

And that, my friends, is truly a tragedy and a waste.

<<|>>