A Tale of Two Tees

It was the best of tees, it was the worst of tees.

Well, not quite. They were both regular black T-shirts. Also, they weren’t very different. You could mistake one for the other quite easily if you flipped them back to front. Or if you looked at the front and were illiterate, maybe. Basically, as I mentioned before, they were both regular black T-shirts.

*****

We first noticed T1 when it mysteriously emerged from the washing machine. 

Now I hadn’t seen any of my cousins actually wear it, but I hadn’t seen anyone else wear it either, and since the cousins leave behind some of their clothes every time they’re here, I assumed it belonged to one of them and promptly adopted it as my own.

T1 was just the kind of T-shirt I like: big, black, unfussy, and, to put it in one word, extremely convenient. (Okay, two words.) As the months went by, T1 simply became mine.

*****

A few months ago, a friend of mine came over for a couple of days, and when he left, he left one of his T-shirts behind. I’d seen him wear it when he was here, so luckily for him, we just hung on to it (and I didn’t start wearing it). I told him it was with me, and he said he missed it, and that was the end of that.

Or so I thought. But boy, was I wrong!

Turned out he threw a fit because he was totally upset and wanted his Van Gogh T-shirt (let's call this one T2) back.

It wasn’t actually autographed by Van Gogh or anything. If it were, I wouldn't tell him about it; I'd just secretly wear it.

It might be worth mentioning that he didn’t actually throw a fit (not one that I know of, at least). It's just funnier this way because he doesn’t seem that temperamental a guy I needed to say that here because he may read this.

Eventually, through some long-winded process that I still don’t quite get, someone came over to collect T2 and took it to him. It traveled way more than he did, and that was the last I ever saw of it.

Strangely enough, it was at around this time that my friend who lives downstairs came home and saw me wear T1. She stared at it for a few moments and said, “My sister used to have a tee exactly like this.” (Ah, so that's who it belonged to!) She said they'd forgotten about its existence, and we had a good laugh about it.

A few days later, I went to return the washed T-shirt and was told to keep it. After a few minutes of debating, I figured they really weren’t going to keep it, so I took it back home.

So, although an autographed Van Gogh T-shirt would have been brilliant, it's not something I would have got anyway. I doubt such a T-shirt exists at all. Besides, to wrap up this story, T1 is a far, far better thing that I own than I have ever done.

P. S. - If you haven't read A Tale of Two Cities, you really should. Dickens at his best, if you ask me, and one of the most brilliant classics ever!

One Year Down

Hello again, everybody!!!! 


I just realized it's been a year since I started this blog. A year and a day, to be precise. Too bad I wasn't able to draw someone being assassinated to mark this happy occasion. Maybe I will sometime soon. Yes, I most certainly will. For now, simply using a different font will have to do. Lame substitute, I know, (if you can call it a substitute at all, which you probably can't) but it's something.


I did have stuff to put together for a decent post, but my computer seems to hate my camera right now. I'd considered letting things be until it was all sorted out, but I realized I've abandoned my blog far too long this time and should put up something, even if it's just a little note to inform the people who are still reading that I am, indeed, very much alive.


You'll definitely hear from me more often than once in a couple of months, but for now, I have to finish my hot chocolate and go to bed.


Thanks for reading, y'all! May your lives be as awesome as my hot chocolate. With coffee.

The Final Sensitive Poem

I had to try all the beginning exercises once I started, and now that I have, you'll be happy to hear that I'm done writing sensitive poetry. Done for a while, at least. Even if I do write something like this in the near future, I won't put it up here. Or at least that's the plan.

Near the lonely knoll I weep

For all the secrets that I keep

Torment me when I try to sleep

And kill my imaginary sheep,

Thus keeping me awake all night

Clutching my pillow, filled with fright,

Doing the best I can to fight

The fear until the sky turns bright.

But daylight won’t forever stay,

And even if it could,

It wouldn’t help me chase away

The maggots in the hole

(That grows bigger with each new day)

Where used to be my soul.

The world just isn’t big enough

For someone like me to hide

The scathing pain and to act tough

When I'm crying inside.

I’ve tried my best to smile and laugh

While parts of me have died.

But now there’s no one else around

And you won’t hear a single sound

Unless maybe you strain your ears

To try and hear my silent tears,

Though that is something I think you

Will probably not care to do

For you are deaf without your phone

And I would rather be alone.

A few hours later I decide I’m done.

My eyes dry, I’m determined to have some fun.

Begone, ye feelings of dread and despair!

Secrets can spread. I’ve grown too cold to care.

I’ll start by climbing this green hill,

And I won’t stop climbing until

I reach the top covered with snow,

Where wild winds cold as my heart blow,

And then, from the highest point I know,

I’ll hurl insults at the world below.

Few days have passed since I did

What I’d set out to do,

And if you say it was stupid,

I might agree with you

For it felt truly wonderful,

But kind of pointless too

Because very few people heard

The things I had to say

And my soul and mind are still disturbed.

The pain won’t go away.

On the lonely cliff I loiter

For the final time

For I am slowly growing weary

Of making words rhyme.

But unless you write stuff like this,

You may never know

That emotions are hard to hide,

But much harder to show.

I step off the cliff edge a little too soon

Like they do in some kids’ cartoons.

Now I would like to point this out

Before everything goes black:

Unlike those cartoon characters,

I won’t be coming back.


Here are the ones that preceded this:
Sensitive poem 1
Sensitive poem 2
Sensitive poem 3