I strut, demure and grungy, down the staircase and into the street. I pose by a lamp post, lean against a dumpster, wink at a cool motorcycle sidecar as I pass by, but only because it deserves it.
I’m wearing two collared shirts, right on top of the other. Both shirts are patterned too, I don’t even care. Can’t you tell? My shirts are flowing and I’m prancing around and my heart is jumping around inside my chest, doing jumping jacks in a completely healthy and metaphorical way. If the heart were actually jumping this would be a problem, yes? So clearly I’m being metaphorical. Stay with me.
I feel free, is the point.
And I feel fly.
And then I bite my lip and sob through a Macklemore concert because he is rapping about the gays.
And it’s all very strange, but my double collars are not.