I thought I’d hit the edge when I saw a young man from the Subcontinent, an NYU student no doubt, walking down my block in a a purple tshirt with a yellow silhouette of a pole dancer. Beneath this image were the words “I WAS OUT ALL NIGHT LAST NIGHT.”
Inside, I thought, “THAT’S IT.” I stepped in front of the young man, raised myself up to all 6 feet 2 inches, and said “I am a child of the 1970s and IN WHAT WORLD would a guy like you get to do that all night?” He ran.
I stopped paying as much attention to stupid t-shirts after that. I had hit rock bottom. No more “I heart my boyfriend” to send me into a spin. I mean really, girl, why not a ring in your nose? Oh, ummm, sorry. She had one of those too.
And this guy? Who is ever going to talk to him at a party? He’s gonna tell anyone who will listen all about his plot. Then he’s going to either ask if you know any agents or brag about his self-publishing numbers. Either way, it’s bad. I’ve even picked him out a shoe.
Enough is enough. Wear something with Woodstock or Hawaii on it. Writing demands humility and degrading it to a t-shirt line will not please the Muses. In fact, those Muses might find the bragging untoward and leave forever.