So today I continued the never ending process of clearing out the old crap to make room for the newer crap. I temporarily moved back into my parents house and subsequently, back into my childhood bedroom. I was off to a good start; in a fashion that would make Lady Gaga proud, I disposed of piles and piles of pants. Said goodbye to shrunken wife beaters and bulldog shorts. Adios hot pink sandals and outfits that should have stayed on spring break in Acapulco. But then I came to my t-shirt drawers. All four. Although I can’t afford to feed a small country, I could definitely outfit a nation. And if I were to dress several African, famished children, each child would unknowingly be telling the story of my life. An over-sized t-shirt signed by my freshman camp bunk mates, some I don’t remember speaking to, yet oddly at the time they all claimed we were BFF. The t-shirt from my first concert, Z100’s Jingle Ball – I was so excited to wear that hideous thing the next day to middle school to make all those who didn’t attend jealous. T-shirts from endless dance recitals before I realized I was an awful dancer. Later, those morphed into shirts from my field hockey team, another hobby I wasn’t good at, but loved just the same. My name on my best friend’s bat mitzvah shirt, a mere inch away from the names of girls who now make a living working without shirts. Shirts with beads and uneven slits, illustrating my inability to use a scissor. A shirt from a summer as a counselor with the nickname “Underage,” illustrating my inability to get into a bar. Sorority shirts with overt sexual innuendos that try to make us sound like sluts ask, “How many licks does it take?” Random shirts from boys from when I acted like a slut. Shirt from a fraternity formal when I sat on a toilet and passed out on my butt. Open this drawer and there is more than stretched out, faded, unflattering t-shirts. There is my past, for all to see.

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