Our gang sign is thumbtips touching, pointer fingers extended: W-hatever
2nd place in Derby #121: Propaganda for Everyday Life, with 1031 votes!
I had a hunch she might be sympathetic to the cause. Something about her appearance suggested so. Maybe it was her ad-hoc hairdo, a collection of uncoordinated rubber bands tying down her hair with no regard for fashion, the way you might try to secure a tarp over a load of furniture in the back of a pick-up truck. Or maybe it was the constellation of lint that covered her wool jacket. Or maybe it was her laceless boots, which clapped around her feet like two big bells every time she took a shuffling step.
“Excuse me,” I said. “But I belong to a coalition of some of the most apathetic residents of this city. I was wondering if you might be interested in joining.”
“I dunno,” she answered. Except it wasn’t the words “I dunno.” It was just a closed-mouth groan-grunt noise, the tone of which she modulated up and then down, duplicating the little sing-song melody of someone saying “I dunno,” but without actually saying it, without dividing the grunt up with consonants, without even opening her mouth.
This girl, I knew, was truly one of us.
Wear this shirt: as a protective layer to keep your torso from imprinting with the pattern of the corduroy upholstery on your sofa when you lie there all day.
Don’t wear this shirt: if it’s going to be a hassle, like if you’re going to have to wash it, or if maybe it’s in your shirt drawer under a bunch of other shirts, because that sounds like a pain.
This shirt tells the world: “meh.”
We call this color: No One Really Ca-Red
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