I have a few duds. Few clothing duds. Nothing nice enough to hang in a closet obviously since there’s nothing in there, but I got some things folded up in a cardboard box under my bed. I pull it out and flip open the top. Cardboard smells like graham crackers. These clothes smell like graham crackers. I think that might be okay. People will probably assume I’ve been around children all day since they’re the only kinds of people that actually like graham crackers. Trusted enough to be around children all day. That’s me. Nothing to see here. Just a guy wearing cool duds that smell like little children.

I upend the box onto my bed and start with the selecting. Now what would I put on if I was working in a big building with a lot of fancy people hanging around, talking about the things they saw on TV or how their dogs can run pretty fast. “Oh! Your dog’s name is Percy? MY dog’s name is Percy too!” And they laugh and laugh. How do I dress like I have a dog named Percy? I scrounge the pile and peel off two blue socks, cool enough for business. I put them aside.

Next, the thing that goes on the top of ya. The ‘ol shirt. I pick two businessy types. One is a western style with reflective snaps and double stitching on the pockets. Very cool. The other one is plain white with long sleeves. That’s probably the one I want, but one of the sleeves has a stain on it from when I was eating something oily, probably chicken or peanut butter, I disremember. If I wear the white one I’ll have to roll the sleeves up. Too business casual? Or would it look more like I was fresh from a rock ‘em sock ‘em meeting where everyone was sweating and shouting good ideas at each other for hours?

I close my eyes and swirl the shirts around on the bed, then eenie meenie miny moe until I’m pointing at the western shirt. That one then. Pants! I look down at the pants I’m wearing, not too bad but I’ve had them for about 20 years. They’re grey and have a few holes from when they went on an excursion to the washing machine during which another pair of jealous pants bit into them with it’s sharp zipper teeth. The dangerous life of clothes. I rummage around in the pile some more. Found some pants. I don’t remember having these ones. I open them to look at the waist and that’s the reason, there’s still a tag inside. I think these were a gift when someone took pity on me for having a few little holes in my pants from the carnivorous toothy pants. Not really my style, but neither was wearing business attire.

I shuck off all I’m wearing and get into them duds. Right on inside. Blue socks look okay, western shirt is a little tight in the armpit area so I better remember not to raise my arms up too high. I’m not a big fan of underwear. What? It’s not weird. It’s not like I’m trying to show the outline of my junk in public or anything, despite what people say to me when I’m on the bus. I just don’t like the idea of wearing leg clothes on top of each other. Shorts under pants? Then people look at you all weird when you wear shorts over pants? It’s the same thing. A jacket is a little bit different, but that’s more like two of the same kinds of things doing different jobs. Tshirt for style, jacket for warm. Can’t wear just a jacket in case you come upon a hot room, then there’s nothing to take off, or at least nothing to take off for long before you get tackled.

You get hot in a pair of pants, what’s the point of wearing underwear? You can’t take your pants off to cool down. Enough about pants. I’ve had this conversation before and it always goes the same way. I can’t change any minds and I’m certainly not changing mine. So. Pants. They go right on the ‘ol bod. No underwear. Shut up. I’m the one that gets to wear pants any way I want. They go on okay, only they’re a little snug in the wastel area. They zip up okay, but that button is not cooperating. Doesn’t matter, that’s what shirts are for, covering the tops of your pants. Or I don’t know if that’s exactly what they’re for, but they sure do a good job of it.

Long story short, I put on some clothes and they don’t fit very well.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

I head into the bathroom to check myself in the mirror. It’s the only one in the house, so I have to make due. I sidle up to it in a businesslike manner, arm extending as if I’m giving someone a direction to sign some documents. I try my business smile. A little lopsided. I turn my head in a posture that shows off my jawline. Pretty good. I hop up to try to catch a look at my blue socks, but this mirror is too high for that, so I make due by looking down and wiggling my toes. Good enough.

I walk to the living room and look out the window, no changes to the building although I’m not sure what changes there would be. No one walking in or out of it still. I start heading to the door when I snap my fingers. Of course! I need a prop.

I scavenge through my cupboards, and under the sink I find a paper grocery bag. I fill it with random stuff so it looks like I’m bringing a lunch to work. Pretty smart. I put in an old jug of toilet bowl cleaner and a handful of mismatched silverware. I jangle the bag around and it sounds like lunch alright. Off I go.

I start to put on my boots then catch myself. Jesus I’m good. I think of everything. I can’t wear boots into an office building! I open the closet and rummage around in there for something else to put on. There’s some snow pants which I distinctly remember never buying or using, it doesn’t even snow here. Why are there snow pants in my closet? When was the last time I even looked through here?

I dig around through mounds of closet things, a scarf that I found on my way home from the grocery store, a tennis racket for hitting large and invasive bugs when they take a shine to coming into my house, a rusty five pound dumbbell from the time I was going to get all big armed and handsome. Do I only have one fukkin’ pair of shoes? Boots? Who’s in charge here? Who’s idea was it to only tromp around in one pair of boots every day? That, my friends, is how you get a fungal infection. Just put your old moldy feet inside every day, warming up that bacteria and giving it a nice little taste of sweat and dead skin. You’re basically just feeding and watering a plant every day that eventually will take a look at your pink toes and start eating on them some. Just a little nibble here and there. A little stinky itchy taste.

There! Under the rope coil! I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t use it like that. It’s for rope tricks. I swing it around and lasso chairs and the like when I get bored. I have hobbies. If you have a problem with my hobbies, then maybe you should look to your own hobbies. They’re probably nowhere near as cool as being able to rope something from across a room. You probably take little nips off of sad stunted trees with special handmade scissors that cost $300 and come all the way from Japan. This rope cost me $7. Who has the cool hobby now? Outta here with your tiny prunin’ havin’ ass.

Like I was saying. Under the rope! A pair of stately brown slippers with fur inside. I should wear these more often. They’re so soft. Like, the fukkin’ softest thing I have in this house. I run my finger across the fur. Soft fukkin’ fur. I bet it’s real. Don't worry though, I’m not like, pro murdering small animals, but I’m pretty sure this fur came from a rabbit that was an asshole. Most rabbits are assholes. Worse than cats. At least a cat will pretend to like you to get food, but then watch what happens when you throw one in a bathtub full of water? See what happens. All pretense dropped. If that cat was as big as it thinks it is or wants to be, it would eat you while you slept, or dive over the couch while you’re watching Sally Jessy Raphael to sink it’s teeth into your shoulder. Sneaky little bastards. A rabbit is at least honest about being an asshole. Get too close to it and it hisses and lunges. You ever heard or seen a rabbit lunge and hiss? It gives you goosebumps. All while you’re just trying to feed it a carrot or whatever the fuck rabbits eat. Things they’re not supposed to, that’s what.

I put on the slippers and they feel nice. Feels nice to walk on the fur of an asshole animal. I look down and admire them. Shit. These aren’t business shoes. Not even close. Everything is perfect except for the footwear. I couldn’t explain wearing these to an office. Even if someone did buy that I worked there, I would probably get fired for wearing something too comfortable. I need to fix this. I ponder some, then get an idea pretty fast. A fast thinker I am. My junk drawer has about a thousand things in it. I can put anything together. I made a pulley system to open a curtain from across the room, you think I can’t figure out how to fix up a pair of slippers to look like business shoes? Fuck you. I’m going to show you how it's done.