Tuesday, July 26, 2011


Jumping, in retrospect, wasn’t the fastest way to die. He should’ve thought about that one. But like most things in life, he didn’t think about it before he did it. No use crying over spilt milk but this spilt milk hurt like a bitch. Some lady from a porch screams, “Oh my God! I think he fell!” Jumped more like. Though he supposed you could liken it to falling. Falling away from everything. Falling away from something that could never really reciprocate his feelings. His desire raging in his veins.

His wife had been crying for hours. Or bleary. More bleary than crying. Crying was a bit of an overstatement. It doesn’t thunderstorm for hours. It thunders for a while and then just rains and rains. So short bits of crying within a larger period of bleariness. He had just gotten his first pair of cordovans off ebay and his wife had walked in on him rubbing it in between his loins. His relationship with his wife deteriorated as his closet grew. Fewer nights spent with his wife and more nights searching for self-affirmation; an epiphany of happiness that he would achieve when he realized himself and how to perfectly present himself to others. Now his wife was moving about the apartment and began to pack a bag to visit her parents for the night. She wouldn’t understand how his love for her was boring and describable. It was the kind of love that wouldn’t keep either of them happy. His love for tailored menswear was truly indescribable. Words couldn’t describe the enjoyment he found tying a four-in-hand.

Later he realized he was wrong about that. The realization started after he critiqued some guys dress on tumblr. He said something like, “Shorts are totally inappropriate for any man to wear. They look far too casual with a blazer and make this guy look like he’s fat. He’s terribly dressed, really.” He had worn a pair of shorts that day. He had to artificially induce sleep that night, asphyxiating himself with a shantung tie and his hand holding his tubing. His wife had moved back in with her parents at that point. The next morning he went to his closet and realized that despite having 20 different spread collars to choose from, he wasn’t good enough for any of them. His love for menswear was describable. It was his hate for himself emerging. He tried to cover it with linen pants and unstructured sportcoats but when he did, he realized that he was still a shit. Overreacting to this realization he found himself at the top of a building.

The EMT arrived at the scene. He hoped they wouldn’t try CPR at any point. Broken rips wouldn’t make for a good silhouette. His thinking was oddly clear. As if you had to fall through the clouds to see anything. He still held menswear with regard. And he wished that he could apologize to just about everyone. When was the last time he had seen his mom? And then, his soul rose, like his erection for menswear, and drifted up and away from his body; leaving behind his Neapolitan clothed body to sadder endings.

1 comment:

  1. Is it possible, in your view, to be both interesting in menswear and yet somehow not consumed by deep self-hatred?