I threw away my favorite shirt.
And, it kind of hurt.
But I couldn’t wear it anymore. I couldn’t walk around in denial of the red assault stain tattooed near the collar of the shirt.
So, I threw my favorite shirt away.
Because of a drunk idiot at a concert this summer.
The carcass of his pink lemonade splatter all over the crowd permanently scarring our shirts, including my shirt-my favorite shirt.
My favorite shirt is now in the trash can.
No more mixing its black and white stripes with black and white polka dots or floral print or any other pattern I felt bold enough to clash with it.
It’s soul-less, un-filled, abandoned, and floating around empty in a junkyard somewhere.
I brought a new black and white striped shirt, but it’s not the same.
I can pretend it’s my old shirt, because it looks like it and fulfills the purpose of my old black and white striped shirt, but it’s not my old shirt.
I had to throw my favorite shirt away, because of a drunk assault stain that wouldn’t go away. But I have a new one now, so I’m okay. But I know wearing it won’t feel the same way.
(*True Story; I was at the Endless Summer Tour with G-Eazy and Logic this summer. I was in the pit and G-Eazy threw water on the crowd. Then I felt a bigger splash. Thought it was more water but I saw red on everyone’s shirts and saw them escorting a drunk idiot with a now empty cup in his hand. The stain wouldn’t come off, so now I had to throw that shirt on the trash. )