This morning I turned into the Hulk and ripped the fuck out of my shirt. Staring in the mirror, hating things. Angry. Like shirts and work.
I was late. I blame quilts.
No, I blame my hands. Very ambitious hands. I do not have an ambitious mind or ambitious eyes, but my hands are ridiculous.
So I'm analyzing my reflection as I slip my arm through my sleeve, and it pinches and rips. Very slight. Eyes narrow. Narrow is bad. Narrow eyes, minds, alleys, smiles, all bad. Do not trust people with narrow things about them.
I don't really need sleeves, do I?
Find someone with an open, growly, gutsy voice.
No, I do not need sleeves.
So I ripped one off. It was incredible, like out of a movie, I just grabbed that fucker and ripped it right off. And then I tried the other one and I could not do it. My left hand, left arm - not stronger than my right sleeve. Lesson learned.
Scissors, after beer and the wheel, are humankind's greatest invention. Then the screwdriver.
That was so much better. So now, now I have no sleeves. It's under a sweater anyway, no one can tell, but that doesn't mean I'm not sitting here at my desk smirking and feeling like a fucking bad ass.
Smash puny humans.