Poor grey sweatshirt. You've stood the test of time. You have been used, and used, and used. You'd think that you'd give up, but you haven't.
Why is it that I always feed Izzie a ketchup related meal while you are worn? Am I mean? Well sorta, but I don't even think about it. I just look over and there you are. Suddenly covered in ketchup. It smeared all over you like a wound. Spreading. Searing into the fibers.
I sometimes wonder if you're asking things like; "Why am I being worn in August? Are you guys crazy?" or "What kind of mother gives her kid grilled cheese for lunch this many times?" or "Why am I being worn AGAIN?"
Sorry grey sweatshirt, but you dilute the steady stream of pink that I shove my little one into.