It’s a T-shirt that changes it’s color and text before depending on your mood and situation. When the Mets win, it’s blue and says “Let’s Go Mets” in curly orange script. When the Mets lose, it says anything else.
At DC9, the shirt is black and boasts something ironic like “Villain of the Year” in blocky white print. If you’re shot down, you could go to the bathroom and comb down your spikes and emerge with a more earnest expression on a white T-shirt. You could even try again. It’s dark in there.
The shirt is a faded charcoal gray when you climb into bed at night. If the light was on and she was squinting, maybe your lover could read “how close am I to losing you” scrawled across your chest. She would have to look though.
Nobody else in the meeting would know that underneath your Macy’s suit and your Gap dress shirt, your T-shirt screams “Fuck You Motherfucker.” That’s the fun of it.
…
I am going to make millions.
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God. This blows my chameleon dental floss out of the water.