A Hell Of A Massacre Of A Butchering

I had a real tragedy the other day, and I say that with the full knowledge that it is utter hyperbole. Really, it's terribly insensitive to characterize what happened as a tragedy in light of true bad things, but I can't help myself. Anyway, I'll just lay it out there and let you judge for yourself whether it was as bad as it feels to me while writing this. I may not even feel that badly about it when I look back over this after it has been published, but we'll see.

It's known that I struggle with laundering clothes. If there's anything but ordinary wear to wash out of something, then it's really beyond me. A stain, as I've noted, is invariably a death sentence. Now, I had bought some new deodorant that promised to make sweat stains a thing of the past, and I jumped at this. I've always been afraid of such a thing happening, and in fact I think it has once or twice. Sadly, I was misled.

I had been using the deodorant all of the time since my last load of laundry. I just did another load, thinking nothing of what might have become of my clothes. Only while folding up the shirts did I notice the fatal stains on the armpits of around three quarters of the shirts. We're talking my favorite, most valuable shirts. I was naturally rather upset. Some heated, salty words were thrown around, and I don't take them back.

Naturally, I threw out the offending deodorant and bought a new one, making plans to do the same with the shirts. The nice thing is that once you get past the hurt of losing something, you can get to the point of seeing exciting opportunity in the replacing of it. That used to happen every time a knife or lighter got confiscated at the airport. It happened with the city of Chicago, in a way. That fire wiped the slate clean, and it made the modern city what it is. I hope to wind up with a better wardrobe of better-fitting shirts, and this may be the catalyst.