Phone lights up: new email. “I just bought Christmas Lights Tee by Facetasm in Size L.” Suddenly—and rather unexpectedly—I am struck with guilt. Thinking back to all the times I can remember wearing the shirt. I’m standing on the 7th floor Wurster balcony with my back turned to the camera. I feel like I’m being photographed for the first time. The day is warm but fashion calls…

I’m standing outside room D in unit 1132, Carpenter/Wells Complex, looking at my reflection and feeling ever-so-dissatisfied with what I’m wearing. Daisy peeks out from behind the door of her room. “I love that shirt on you! Ever since you wore it during TTT.” I smile very faintly. I find it hard to believe that someone ever watched me the way I feel like I watch the world.

I’m standing in a hallway in CZ. I’m facing the camera this time. The overhead light is harsh and fluorescent, and I’m holding a can of Four Loko Gold to my mouth. Eddie is next to me, wearing the same shirt as me. It’s Halloween and on a last minute whim we went out as “twins,” the laziest, lowest-effort costume ever since for me it’s nothing more than a matter of wearing what I already wear on a daily basis.

I’m in a museum in Taichung, outside a Yayoi Kusama exhibit. I thought it would be fitting to wear this shirt to such an artist’s exhibit. Unfortunately, I had just been removed from the exhibit, but I can’t leave the museum either. I’m watching the woman standing across from me as she frantically bad-mouths me to museum security. My throat feels tight, and I regrettably cannot defend myself owing to my linguistic ineptitude.

Just ten minutes earlier, I had been inside the exhibit playing a game with Madeline. This specific Yayoi Kusama exhibit was about transforming the viewer into a participant—museum patrons were each given a sticker sheet of colored circles and invited to decorate what was once a blank white room however they pleased. There wasn’t much white space left in the room, so we began to surreptitiously put stickers onto the other people in the exhibit. We stuck stickers in cute places. A dot here on someone’s laptop bag, a circle there on someone’s jacket shoulder. Madeline put a sticker on the back of a child’s head. Weaving between the other individuals in the exhibit, we narrowed in on a man crouched over, then without thinking, shot out our hands to each press a colored spot onto his cap. His wife saw us, and she didn’t have a sense of humor.

As I’m standing there listening to her shrill voice, I want to ask her what Yayoi Kusama would think of what just happened. My crossed arms press into the soft polyester fur on my shirt. The sensation is a mildly pleasant distraction from the bizarre and unreasonable situation.

I’m at a solar farm. I can’t see through my tears. I’m not crying because I’m sad—I just ate the worst chili peppers I’ve ever eaten. I love spicy food, but these were something else. They warned us not to eat the peppers growing on the bushes, which only prompted me to ask Kevin, “If I eat three, will you eat three?” Bonnie is helping me sit down on a bench, and in my deliriousness I keep telling her that my mouth tastes like soap and that she should just “end it now.” "What?" "End me now." After I return from the astral plane, I check my shirt to make sure I didn’t drool on it. We good.

I’m standing now in my room, clutching said Christmas Lights Tee by Facetasm in Size L. My hand trembles a little. Maybe I shouldn’t have put this up for sale. I mean, the neckline did always fit a little small, and the length was a bit short too for something free-sized. But nobody’s perfect, right? Not even Christmas Lights Tee by Facetasm in Size L. My brain feels fuzzy with regret. Maybe I should refund the buyer, I mean this thing has been with me through a lot and for me to just se—Messenger notification sounds, and I check my laptop. Eddie: “always recoppable fam.”

It took just three words for me to feel a little bit better and begin printing a USPS shipping label.