Good God. This sweater is hideous.

I mean, what if I actually wore this sweater? And then, while wearing it, I were to die. I don't want to be a dead man wearing this sweater. Imagine the look on the coroner's face when he sees my lifeless body swathed in this obscenity. Immediate disdain.

Or what if while, on some miserable day when I deigned to wear this sweater, I were to at long last meet the one, true love of my life? If she really were, in fact, the one, true love of my life, my soul mate, she surely wouldn't give me a second's thought in this sweater. No woman I could ever love could ever love a man who would wear such a sweater.

Of course, the probability of dying while in this sweater is pretty minuscule. Besides, there's always the off-chance that it could prove beneficial. Like, maybe on the day I choose to wear the sweater, I could stave off unwanted attention--some crazy woman who would otherwise become my stalker, perhaps? These things are impossible to predict.

But that's beside the point. It's an ugly sweater. I'm not going to wear it.

Labels: short stories