Alt title: Silk blouse: resurrected.
There are a few things now and then you know right away are just right on. Booyah. Big zing. Cutting the filet open to see that perfect pink—all wounds are healed. As a writer, this zing a joyous and fleeting feeling you have to treat like a boy you dig—pretend it’s not there, and it shows up time and time again. If you’re Eli, it’s the minute you hear the Ding Ding Bowl come out—eyes wide open from a sound sleep. It’s tuna time, baby.
Or, if you’re a manic shopper who has things in her closet with tags still on them, and then, all of a sudden, a discarded piece makes sense…
Equipment makes a mean silk blouse. I want ten of them. Currently, I have none of them. But that hasn’t stopped me from finding every other silk blouse I have and wearing it into the ground. This little baby was hiding—still folded, still with tags—like a pea sandwiched between piles of shorts.
My own version. Breezy, too. Anyway, I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drum.
Hold on to anything long enough, and it comes back into style. I wanna hear about your rejects that found a new place in the sun.