Does anyone really really and I mean really love ironing? Yes? Well do I have the shirt for you. It’s blue, it’s been worn about twice, and it only needs about three fifths of the world’s supply of starch to approach the state of flatness. Free to a good home.
Man do I hate this damn shirt. I associate it with one thing, one memory: being in a tiny room in the basement of a hotel, trying desperately to get the creases out of it with what was, to be blunt, a flimsy piece of shit iron. I worked like a bastard for fifteen minutes but I still had to keep my jacket on for most of the day because, you know, my shirt was still as wrinkly as disgruntled babirusa. Call me a perfectionist but I think a shirt should at least aspire to be smooth otherwise what is the fucking point of it? Eh? Eh?
Stupid shirt. I don’t need you any more. I’m a bit slimmer now. You need to find another sucker. Maybe someone with one of those fancy steam generator things?