If You Want to Destroy My Sweater

The tail end of this morning's dream: the elevator in my building was plunging from the thirty-first floor. I stood in the hallway, listening to the occupants screaming as they whooshed by. Ah, rendetemi la speme, I whispered, preparing myself for the crash. It didn't help. There was nothing I could've done, but guilt rose along with the cries of the victims. My little mantra didn't shut out the thud at the bottom, either. I woke up with my heart pounding in my chest, hard enough to hurt. The screaming was still going on. For a moment, I thought the city was under attack, but it was only the television, tuned to a film about sharks.

"...o lasciatemi morire," I said, aloud. I hate to leave a sentence unfinished.

As soon as my heart rate had returned to normal, I got up and put on my favourite sweater. I got it in Sweden, this sweater, the first time I visited. It's a dark grey hoodie job, soft as silk from a thousand runs through the washer. I'd wear it every day if I could. Unfortunately, it seems its days are numbered: as I pulled it over my head this morning, I noticed daylight coming in. A hole had formed underneath the left arm, big enough to stick my pinky through. I examined it carefully from the inside and the outside, and discovered that the seam was beginning to unravel. Furthermore, the fabric itself had begun to fray. This leaves me only one shirt without any holes or hanging seams in it, one piece of clothing I can wear without embarrassment. My red hoodie is now my last bastion of vestiary civilization. Hold fast, red hoodie, be strong.

I don't understand where my garments come by all these holes. Granted, they're hoary old things--venerable vestments, I suppose you might call them. But they hardly have to earn their keep. I don't stretch them or pull them or squirm about in them. Most of them have never even been subjected to a steam iron. They should hardly have aged a day. My sweater, in particular. That sweater lives the life of Riley. I feel betrayed by it! I guarded it with such care, guarded it from the depredations of ink and spaghetti sauce and giant rats. I used only the gentle cycle when washing it, and dried it on half heat. Every few washes, I treated it to half a cup of fabric softener. I loved that sweater, and this is how it repays me? I'm afraid to wear it now, for fear of enlarging the hole. Even if I were to have it sewn together, I'd always be afraid the new stitches wouldn't be as good as the old ones, that the material might've been weakened in some irreparable way, which would lead to the ultimate destruction of my sweater.

Oh! Remember that old story--who wrote it? Gogol? I think it was Gogol: The Overcoat. You know, the one where the fellow had an overcoat, which he prized above all else, and repaired till the patches themselves had patches, till it was little more than a tissue of darning and tortured wool? His overcoat was his pride and joy, his sole defence against a freezing world. How did it end? His overcoat wore out one day, I think, and he was forced to commission a new one. He saved and saved, month after month, till at long last, he was able to afford a positively magnificent coat. No sooner had the poor man picked it up, alas, than it was pinched, and he died of cold and grief. His ghost never quit looking for it, grabbing at other people's coats forever.

Right. Perhaps I'd be better off patching my sweater and hoping for the best. Setting my sights on a new one would only tempt fate. I don't want to be a sweater-snatching revenant.

Anyhow, got off on a bit of a tangent, there. Where was I? Oh, yeh. Got up, put on sweater, found hole, was perturbed. I put on my trousers too, but I already knew about their holes and frayed bits, so that was all right. I mooched off into the kitchen, looking for food, but I found I had no appetite. I was more tired than I'd thought, and quite ill besides. Eating seemed more of a chore than a pleasure. I ate half a plate of rice anyway. I've got to eat, even when I don't feel like it, or I'll only get worse. Still, I'm afraid I'm in for a bad few days. My brain's gone all that muzzy way it does, and I can feel that red filter coming down, that haze of pain that gets all over everything. I could burst with annoyance--I'd just finished the Fleshrot Halloween Special, and all. I'd been looking forward to a day off that wasn't one I had to take off because I wasn't up to working.

Knowing there might not be much work going on over the weekend, I crammed in all I could today. In retrospect, that might not have been the best idea I ever had. I revived a bit in the early evening, enough to have a chat with some friends, but now, as the day winds to a close, I'm not so lively. I foresee a long night ahead, alternating between the shower, the couch, and the computer. What a pain. What a drag. What a...oh, I can't think of a word to express my utter...bepeevement. (So I've made one up! Ha-ha!)

With that, I'm off to, you know, frowst about and feel sorry for myself. I also plan on balancing an ice cube on my head and letting the meltwater run down my face in a stupid-looking way. Feel free to imagine me in all my dorky glory. I am wearing torn trousers and a sad old sweater, and my hair hasn't been brushed since this morning. I smell like Listerine, hand-soap, and ginger.

Goodnight.