Are you looking at the stain on my pants? I can tell you're avoiding looking at the big splattered stain on my pants, thanks to the lettuce piece basted in Caesar dressing that tumbled into my lap at lunch. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. What a rube. She's an ill-bred foodtard who can't even get her cakehole to meet her fork.
But I will own this splotch. I will smother it in various laundry chemicals. I will tell it WHO'S BOSS. It will cower in the shadow of my zealous blotting, and it will slink away, joining all the other stains and smells that we blot/scrub/wipe out of our clothes every day.
I imagine there is a stain heaven somewhere, where all the stains and smells go after getting sprayed, soaked and blotted into oblivion. Stains and smells need redemption. They do. Something doesn't become a stain until you judge it thusly. And who are you to judge what is a stain and what is serendipitous decoration? The stain is what it is. Once the stain is a part of your clothing, do you throw it away? Or do you reinvent it as a t-shirt you'll wear the next time you paint the living room?
But. I am still blotting the hell out of my pants when I get home.
Also: too much coffee today.
