Wrinkled Suit Jackets Scare the Poopy Out of Me

I had a fear related  blog a few years ago. In an attempt to consolidate all my stuff I will randomly post stuff from that blog just because. Also, it’s an easy ass way to add more content without doing extra work. Let’s start this shit out right. Here’s a thing about suit jackets. 


I wish there was some cool twist to this (ok, “cool” is a slightly strong word). Like, maybe I’m afraid that a suit jacket would grow large, become anthropomorphic and gain teeth, becoming some kind of a suit jacket monster that comes solely from the imagination of a child. Unfortunately, this is not the case. (Or maybe fortunately because this would indicate a level of insanity that I have yet to attain; this is like homeless person insanity. Though you have to admit, you would love to see a suit jacket monster, wouldn’t you?) My fear is much more stupid.

It started this morning when I was rooting through the piles of clothes in my closet for something to wear. (It’s kind of impressive that one can have piles of clothes with no suitable outfits, and no, the word “suitable” was not meant to be a pun.) While doing this, I came across the suit jacket that my father had gotten for me when I graduated college. I had a job interview just a couple of weeks ago and must have forgotten that it was out and somehow it ended up in the mass of clothes in the closet.

Instantly, my search for clothes had ended and instead my focus shifted to the suit jacket. I studied it up and down and saw a few wrinkles, maybe one or two. Most people probably would have just said to themselves, “I should iron this” and moved on with their lives, if they even cared enough to do that. (Actually, most people would have had the jacket hanging up in the first place but that’s beside the point.) I hung it up and then proceeded to obsess over the damn thing for the next 30 minutes.

My first thought involved wearing the jacket to a job interview. Of course, in my mind, I would automatically be eliminated from consideration for the job because the interviewer would be all like, “fuck his fashion sense, stupid wrinkly asshole.” This thought started to snowball to me failing to get future jobs because, for some reason, I would not fix my wrinkly jacket until at some point, after repeated failures in attaining a job, I would be homeless and screaming to people about jacket monsters.

This thought began a huge panic episode in which I sat in my shower staring at my wall, smiting God for letting me leave my suit jacket out. While I’m not sure if that was an overreaction, I do know that the middle finger I pointed at the direction of the sky was a little much.

Anyways, I will now make sure that when I’m done wearing the suit jacket, I will hang the thing up because a lifetime of living in my car (that I’m convinced is seconds from breaking down, by the way) does not sound too appealing.

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