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I fuck heavily with this Anglo Shirt from Bruta, because something something missing the forest for the trees. I don’t know. It’s tough to explain why one fucks heavily with anything. Accounting for taste is a difficult task, which is why I prefer to go on insane tangents about irrelevant nonsense, instead of staying on topic and engaging with the items about which I’m ostensibly writing. Right now, for example, I’m itching to bring up my pitch for a Million Dollar Matchmaker / Bad Girls Club crossover, where Patti Stanger plays Cupid to a group of proudly maladjusted young women, but I’m not going to do that, because I am fully focused on this shirt. Laser fucking focused. My thoughts are consumed by this shirt. Consumed like a simile I’m not going to make, because I’m so focused. Past, present, future: shirt. SHIRT. It’s green. It looks like the woods. It’s made from a viscose cotton blend. What’s viscose, you ask? Doesn’t matter. All that matters is shirt. Shirt matters. Please note that I’m allowed to make puns, as long as they are entirely shirt-centric. The puns won’t be funny, but they will be on topic. Despite the fact that it’s tearing me apart on the inside, I’m not going to randomly bring up my newfound love of watching professional bowling. What does bowling have to do with the Anglo Shirt? Nothing. So there shall be no bowling in this post. Just shirt. There is only shirt. Look deep into your heart. What’s in there? Shirt. Shirt is there. Shirt saves. If only I could go back to college and major in shirt. I would tell you what that might look like -- maybe toss out some silly names for courses, like “History of Sleeves: 1600-1950” or “The Gendered Button: Shirt Closures and Sexual Hegemony” -- but that wouldn’t fit with the telescopic lens focus of this post, so you’ll have to live without. You know what you don’t have to live without? That’s right. Shirt -RB
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