Slob.
There is a spot on my shirt.
I am not certain if it is salad dressing or not, though this seems to be the most likely culprit given the balsamic dressing and the small brown dot down the front of me. It’s not the milk from breakfast, nor is it coffee. I know I haven’t spilled coffee on myself today, not even on my pants, like yesterday. Which was fine, since it covered the food splatter I didn’t notice from making dinner in those pants the night before that.
This shirt is extraordinarily wrinkled too, since I sweat through it powerwalking my way to work. I suppose it’s a fair trade since the wrinkles the hanger left on my trousers smoothed out at the same time. I’m thankful the cleaners only costs a dollar and half; money well spent for the 20 minutes of crispness I got impressing the people on BART who weren’t looking at me.
Hopefully this weekend I will remember to wash the bathrobe I have sat in most of the weekend before. As well as the pants that retained the odor of the public restroom I used at lunch.
Can I have the hose and a do-over for last week’s clothes, please?