Don't fuck with the comfortable. Being comfortable is uncool? We don't look good unless we look distracted by the clothes we wear?

Alright. The last year or so it seems that t-shirts can no longer just hang off a body. They have to be stretchy clingy. Maybe the cotton has mutated and the agriculturists buried the news. But I can't find an extra large t-shirt that doesn't suck onto my body like celophane wrap.

Simple black t-shirts from Old Navy. Clingy. Simple black t-shirts from The Gap ( you are correct, I should have a fingernail removed with a pair of pliers for even walking into a Gap ). Clingy. Homie gives me a black Guinness logo t-shirt. Clingy. Procure a fanboy Clash t-shirt. Fucking clingy! I mean the Clash for humpty dumpty sake.

In all fairness I was able to accidentally find a t-shirt at a J. Crew store on Fifth Avenue that actually is affected by the wind and doesn't leave a lumbar encompassing hickey on me when removing. Course that t-shirt, t-shirt now, not sweater, not mithril, not a vest hand crafted from the harvested butt hair of unicorns, a t-shirt, costing over twenty dollars. Ta-wenty. Twenty bones. Twenty.

Since it seems to be the only locus for my skin nerves salvation I'll be back when the wallet approves for more. But, holy hand grenade. For something that is essentially food splatters and city funk shielding, twenty bitch ass bucks is hard to swallow.

Not even trying to hide the tummy here. Please. Trying to hide faults is something I left behind when I hurdled past the teen years. It ain't a fault anyway. Penis shade remember. I just don't like to have objects clinging to me. Bitches or clothing.

I might be partially autistic. I tense up from casual hands on my shoulder. Poking me in the side can get your stumps bloody. People find out I'm ticklish they think it's a grand old time to torture me with the fingers. Until, that is, that I land a right cross. Seriously, when I don't wanna be touched, which is most of the time, and especially by those who are not on my list to suck my dick, I react in an extremely violent and twitchy manner.

Back off man, just back off!

Fucking clingy shirts fall right in that annoyance check out line. Try one of those infernal things on and my whole body starts excreting nervous energy. Rip the fucker right off. Be off with you satanic sucker beast.

Hopefully I am just traditionally unlucky and happenstance has seen fit to persecute me with clingy t-shirts. Wait, what? Hopefully your unlucky? Limping christ your right. Fuck that, hopefully I'm not just paranoid and the opposing agents are in the middle of operation piss spanky off. Hold on, now you hope your just not paranoid. Like, what, your usually a paranoid freak? Oh shut the fuck up. Hmmph, whatever. Nerd.