Mismatch

The pajama drawer of everyone's mirrored bureau, antique wooden chest, and/or plastic Ikea dressër is a hodgepodge of various baggy shirts, college sweatpants, and flannel mistakes. It's the spot where left socks go to hide, and it houses all of the lost thoughts that felt claustrophobic inside your cluttered head. I know I'm not alone in that exasperated feeling that sweeps my body of any remaining stamina when I fling it open only to find that the 1992 tee is moth-eaten and the fleece polka-pants are covered in the omnipresent orange cat fluff. After fifteen tedious hours of frantic character development, exhaustive readings on an Indian emperor no one with a life has time to analyze, and quick meals between musky subway rides along a rickety track, the least karma could do is present me with something halfway decent.

The nightmares of ambiguity always escape from the pajama drawer and haunt with sleep with ALMOST-softs and MAYBE-nonflammables, so close to the pinnacle of comfortwear and yet so far from the catalog images reserved for rich, suburban wives who know how to mix a mimosa. Sometimes I like to fade into the haze, and release the tense obsession with always looking right. And then again, I like to sleep. Good night, everyone. Better blog tomorrow.