People are like shirts. Sort of.

We’re made. Knitted and sewn together from separate components, died and finished and folded up and sent off to stores. We wait on the shelves or racks for a time, waiting to be purchased. Or maybe stolen. Who knows?

Once acquired, we’re worn and used and sometimes thrown on the floor. We get messy from time to time, and we’re (hopefully) washed afterward. We spend a lot of time hanging out or hiding in dark drawers, but when we’re out we see the sun or the rain or romp about in play or work or passion or sorrow or joy or all manner of things, all in a blur to be remembered in those quiet times when we wait in laundry baskets or washing machines or dryers or closets or dressers.

Eventually, we grow old. We get wrinkled and worn, and finally, we must be let go. Sometimes we’re passed on to others. Sometimes we are thrown out. Sometimes we’re burned. And then, in some hands, we’re torn to pieces and used to patch up other shirts.

The difference is, as people, we generally choose whether we’ll be used for spare parts. We can choose when we’ll be purchased or worn or washed. We choose when we’ll be in or out.

That shirts have no choice in these matters is the true horror of their existence.

Ideas? Reactions? Let me know in the comments! Similar nonsense is also available on Patreon. All proceeds go toward psychiatric therapy for wrinkled shirts. Really.