A Story

 I have a collection of white button down shirts. I have exceptionally sensitive skin. But not like I burn in the sun easily or that I get rashes or that I itch a lot. I just feel…things feel weird…things touch me too much. Sometimes a shirt feels so much like saran wrap I’ll forgo a shirt entirely. I once went to Trader Joe’s like that and I think because of the sheer look of desperation on my face, everyone let me in. Everyone let me buy my peanut butter and honey. Everyone looked when I yelled fuck in  the parking lot because I forgot  the bread and then almost started to cry, but got in my car anyway. 

The shirts are all a linen cotton blend and I get them all from the same place. I make the pilgrimage whenever quarterly. When I have more than seventeen, I donate them to my friends. They always say, “Thanks, man.” I’ve befriended so many people— people I don’t see very often— so that I can always give someone new a new shirt. The shirts always stay new. I do wear button downs, but not the white ones. I sweat too much for that. But I see them every morning, and sometimes when I can’t sleep I look at them and feel content. I’ll even smile a little. 

I wear a button down on a regular basis but it’s always green or blue. Never black, mostly navy, but I wear my pale army green one when the occasion calls for it. Such occasions: 

1. My sister’s bridal shower

2. My sister’s baby shower 

3. Whenever I have to pick up my girlfriend from work 

But sometimes I’ll create a new occasion and hope everyone that sees me thinks, “Wow, that guy really loves himself.”