What is it with you and sleeves? Why do they vex you so?
I’ve put great a deal of effort into this question (five minutes) and narrowed it down to a list of likely scenarios that fuel your unbridled hatred for armwear. If these hit close to home, my apologies:
1. Dustin Diamond. ‘Nuff said.
2. A sleeve touched your special place when a grown-up wasn’t around.
3. One time a beautiful
woman person asked to see your guns, but they were buried under a sleeve causing you to scream into the night, “NO, DAMN YOU! NEVER AGAIN, SLEEVES!”
4. A sleeve murdered your father over an unpaid debt.
5. They’re itchy.
I understand you’re currently in South Beach, but a timely response would be appreciated before I tell people a sleeve broke your heart and slept with your brother.
The Superficial Writer
P.S. How much are we talking for you to show up to my work and call people “Preppy?” Five, ten bucks? Shoot me a figure which I’ll continually reject until you settle for a McMuffin.