I hate the weird fixtures in your life that represent a shittiness you don’t care to remember, but for some reason you just don’t get rid of them. You look at them and touch them, full of disgust, and you tell yourself, “I have to get rid of this”, but you never fucking do. It just sits and stays, silently tormenting you. But actually you’re tormenting yourself because you can’t just fucking let go of the ugly jacket hanging up in your closet.
I ripped it off the hanger the other day and threw it on the floor. It didn’t change how I felt at all. I thought a really theatrical display of how much I hated it would ease the tension in my chest, but it didn’t. And I felt like an asshole. So on my floor it stayed because that was its place now. On the floor, in the middle of my fucking room. My pug tore apart the drawstrings. I walked across it with dirty shoes. A jacket I’ve maybe worn twice in my life. A really quality, warm jacket. The ugliest, dumbest, most worthless jacket in the world.
It made sense to give it away. It made sense to donate it. It made even more sense to burn it because the idea of it still existing in this world gave me a fucking headache. Under any other circumstance, I would have loved that jacket. It would have been one of my favorite jackets, I think, and that’s what bothered me. That jacket was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. That poor jacket.
I quickly came to my senses though because a) I don’t have it in me to burn anything because I’m a lazy fuck. That, and it kind of feels like putting effort into something I decided a long time ago wasn’t worth effort. I think too highly of myself for that. And b) it would look much cuter on my little cousin than as a pile of ash in the middle of the desert.
I think some things deserve a second chance. Don’t misconstrue that. I’m talking about jackets.
