I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to hoodie.
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Dear Hoodie,
I’m not sure if that’s how I should spell you since Word, Blogger, and my dictionary say you don’t exist, and I can barely spell my own name. But hopefully this will do. Anyway, my brother suggested I write to you since you have been sitting on my torso for three days straight, minus the two hours extended family came over yesterday to moan about life under the guise of “Thanksgiving.” I wanted you to join in the festivities of family complaining, but my mother looked a bit upset that my entire Thanksgiving outfit was composed of grey cotton, so I changed - into green and black cotton. Thanks for being so understanding.
Now, I should probably apologize for having bought you in the first place. You see you came from a far-away land called “Spain.” And in “Spain,” things are often written in a strange, rarely used language called “Spanish.” In “Spanish,” I know two words: my name, which means “bad” – (thank you mom and dad) – and “grazie.” Actually, “grazie” is Italian. So in conclusion, I know one word in Spanish. This is my justification of buying you – I had no idea you came from the men’s department, as I do not know the words for “men” nor “women” in Spanish. Sorry.
To be fair, you were also one of those hoodies whose designers donate two percent of their profits to a foundation that supports curing babies with three feet or whatever the fuck the cause is. Being the humanitarian I am, I decided to buy you to help those poor three-footed babies, instead of donating directly to a transparent organization that clearly defines their methodology in how to cure three-footed babies. You should be grateful.
Hoodie, I’m sure it’s clear by the waking hours I keep that I am indeed, unemployed. Since this disease attacked me six months ago, I have considered switching professions more than a few times. You have helped so much in this exploration, especially with my newest career choice: French rapper. Remember how I downloaded that song by Diams a few months ago? Well, Diams and I are like the same person: she’s a Muslim convert who grew up near Paris, and I am a lazy Hindu who grew up in Virginia. Okay, so we have nothing in common, BUT, in her latest video, she wears a hoodie! So do I! It’s you! We’re trop badass together, hoodie! You and me, sitting in front of the mirror, mouthing words about French racism, ouais c’est ça! I might even write my own French rap song one of these days. When the time comes to make a crappy video to go with the song, my first choice is to cast you, ma chère hoodie!
Look hoodie, I heard you whispering last night to left sock. There might come the day when I actually find employment, and all of those pretentious wool and silk dress clothes will once again reign free. However, I just want you to know that you are WAY more appealing than those bastards, which is why I plan on petitioning to my future place of employment to instate hoodie-only suits. Yes, I realize these do not exist, and yes I realize I do not possess the skill to whip these into creation. But just remember one thing hoodie: I ALWAYS choose comfort. So until our French rap song goes platinum, I will not rest until I have the right to wear you in the office!
With conviction (unless it’s hard),
Mala
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