I stink. I am stained with this humans sweat and the filth that he is surrounded by. I feel ashamed of myself today, though I shouldn't; its not my fault the fellow eats so sloppily and has extra active sweat glands and is not as hygienic as one should ideally be.
But I was not always this way. I was owned earlier by my present wearers sibling. She was a sweetheart. I was cared for and it felt good. I was washed regularly and worn and handled with utmost care - that did a lot for my self esteem. And not to mention being admired by passer by's and seeing the lady clothes giving me the corner eyes really did give me a high. Though I was made in a factory in sweat shop in India using the employment services of underage kids, I felt good to be wanted and liked by someone. I came to realize the past did not matter. What mattered was the now!
I am a blue shirt. I am adorned with checks, the check lines are dark blue and bordered on one side with a tinge of white and a rustic red. I am one of those casual shirts one wears with jeans and was in vogue when I was purchased which a long long time ago.
I was the pride of my old owners collection. I was always packed for any of her visits and she always showed me off - although very discreetly, as all women do when they want to show off. The bonus was that when she wore me, her life seemed better too. I seemed to be having a positive effect in her, and that's ultimately want any decent and hard working shirt wants - to make somebody else's life better.
And then as with all things in life except misery,and sadness, and worries and everything bad; the good times had to come to an end. My owner outgrew me - not physically, but in terms of style and thought. Suddenly I was too "manly" for her and she chose those flowery t-shirts and the rainbow coloured kurtis rather than having to do with me, who had worked so hard in making her look good and concealing her shame.
And so I was abandoned in the common attic of the house where everything starting from broken kitchen appliances to the Man of the house's completed liquor bottles were stowed away to be dispensed off after use. And that's how I felt - used off, dispensed with.. Sigh
The Man of the house's son always rummaged through the junk in search of liquor bottles that still had some left over due to the carelessness of the Master of the house which in turn came from the over availability of cash from the smuggling business he did. You can see what a creepy little new owner I was going to have. And the horror - the Master of the house smuggled narcotics in the stitches of shirts. Oh how cruel can one be, to subject harmless mouth less creatures to crimes of this nature. Though there are a few brethren of mine who enjoyed this profession - the ones who are made of denim and take pride in being able to carry out these activities - false pride I say.
I digress, back to the fate of my life. On one of his rummaging sessions the little master found me, immediately without even bothering to dust himself or wash himself wore me on and smiled as I felt disgusted. And that moment I knew I was done for.
And as with most shirts all over the world, I bear the treatment in silence, not that I have a choice. I am used and thrown aside and used again when felt like.
These days men changes shirts like they change women. If only we had rights too...
But I was not always this way. I was owned earlier by my present wearers sibling. She was a sweetheart. I was cared for and it felt good. I was washed regularly and worn and handled with utmost care - that did a lot for my self esteem. And not to mention being admired by passer by's and seeing the lady clothes giving me the corner eyes really did give me a high. Though I was made in a factory in sweat shop in India using the employment services of underage kids, I felt good to be wanted and liked by someone. I came to realize the past did not matter. What mattered was the now!
I am a blue shirt. I am adorned with checks, the check lines are dark blue and bordered on one side with a tinge of white and a rustic red. I am one of those casual shirts one wears with jeans and was in vogue when I was purchased which a long long time ago.
I was the pride of my old owners collection. I was always packed for any of her visits and she always showed me off - although very discreetly, as all women do when they want to show off. The bonus was that when she wore me, her life seemed better too. I seemed to be having a positive effect in her, and that's ultimately want any decent and hard working shirt wants - to make somebody else's life better.
And then as with all things in life except misery,and sadness, and worries and everything bad; the good times had to come to an end. My owner outgrew me - not physically, but in terms of style and thought. Suddenly I was too "manly" for her and she chose those flowery t-shirts and the rainbow coloured kurtis rather than having to do with me, who had worked so hard in making her look good and concealing her shame.
And so I was abandoned in the common attic of the house where everything starting from broken kitchen appliances to the Man of the house's completed liquor bottles were stowed away to be dispensed off after use. And that's how I felt - used off, dispensed with.. Sigh
The Man of the house's son always rummaged through the junk in search of liquor bottles that still had some left over due to the carelessness of the Master of the house which in turn came from the over availability of cash from the smuggling business he did. You can see what a creepy little new owner I was going to have. And the horror - the Master of the house smuggled narcotics in the stitches of shirts. Oh how cruel can one be, to subject harmless mouth less creatures to crimes of this nature. Though there are a few brethren of mine who enjoyed this profession - the ones who are made of denim and take pride in being able to carry out these activities - false pride I say.
I digress, back to the fate of my life. On one of his rummaging sessions the little master found me, immediately without even bothering to dust himself or wash himself wore me on and smiled as I felt disgusted. And that moment I knew I was done for.
And as with most shirts all over the world, I bear the treatment in silence, not that I have a choice. I am used and thrown aside and used again when felt like.
These days men changes shirts like they change women. If only we had rights too...
No comments:
Post a Comment