He Wears T Shirts Sometimes

he wears t shirts sometimes
    t shirts
  • A short-sleeved casual top, generally made of cotton, having the shape of a T when spread out flat
  • (T Shirt (album)) T Shirt is a 1976 album by Loudon Wainwright III. Unlike his earlier records, this (and the subsequent 'Final Exam') saw Wainwright adopt a full blown rock band (Slowtrain) - though there are acoustic songs on T-Shirt, including a talking blues.
  • (t-shirt) jersey: a close-fitting pullover shirt
  • A T-shirt (T shirt or tee) is a shirt which is pulled on over the head to cover most of a person's torso. A T-shirt is usually buttonless and collarless, with a round neck and short sleeves.
  • (wear) clothing: a covering designed to be worn on a person's body
  • (wear) be dressed in; "She was wearing yellow that day"
  • (wear) impairment resulting from long use; "the tires showed uneven wear"
  • Habitually have on one's body or be dressed in
  • Have on one's body or a part of one's body as clothing, decoration, protection, or for some other purpose
  • Exhibit or present (a particular facial expression or appearance)
he wears t shirts sometimes - Life Is
Life Is Short, Wear Your Party Pants
Life Is Short, Wear Your Party Pants
Loretta La Roche has helped millions of people find ways to lighten up and overcome stress. Now, in Life Is Short—Wear Your Party Pants, she gives you the tools you need to not only reduce feelings of tension, but also to bring joy, passion, and gusto into your life. Her techniques are a brilliant blend of old-world common sense and the most contemporary research in brain chemistry, psychology, and mind-body studies. Loretta gives you dozens of proven techniques for recognizing the ten simple truths that will lead you to an intense, happy, successful life: resilience, living in the moment, optimism, acceptance, humor, creativity, moderation, responsibility, meaning, and connection.
Loretta’s wisdom evolved from her own life—one filled with the demands of being a single mother of three; of starting her own business when she was broke; and of the wacky invasiveness of her Italian family. She’s like all of us: real, flawed, stressed out, and on edge. Her magic comes from an ability to not take herself too seriously, and to always shift her focus away from the self-destructive and toward the truly important things in life.
In her work, Loretta has seen tens of thousands of people who live their lives as if they’re sitting in a waiting room, hoping that their turn comes up next. This book will show you that life is not something to be endured, but is something to be truly appreciated. We need to remember how to access our inner abundance, which allows us to be heart-centered, joy-filled human beings.
As Loretta says: “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift—that’s why they call it the present.”

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Sometimes it's nice to be stared at.
Sometimes it's nice to be stared at.
Sometimes it’s nice to be stared at. No, not like you’re a leg of lamb hanging on a rack at the butcher’s. But like the person can’t take their eyes off you because there’s something about you that is absolutely captivating. (Usually, there’s nothing captivating about you except for the bit of brownie still attached to the front of one of your teeth. Or maybe the bright colours of your panty that’s peeking through your fly that you left down the last time you went to the bathroom. Those can be considered ‘captivating’ right?)

But in the event that it’s not one of those things, (and I check quickly by running my tongue over my teeth and discreetly checking my pants) I wonder what it could possibly be that is making the guy at the other side of the bookstore look at me. Constantly. Maybe he thinks I’m someone else. That’s gotta be it. Or maybe he’s trying to decide which insanely ridiculous line he’s gonna come use on me. Oh jeez I can see his cogs turning. “Hey babe, are you an athlete? Coulda sworn you were, cuz you’ve been running through my mind all day! Har! Har!”
Oh god, suppose he’s one of those unimaginative conversationalists? Or worse what if he’s not a conversationalist at all? What if he’s REALLY dumb and he can’t form a complete sentence and all he looks at in bookstores is FHM for the “pretty pictures” and because the only magazine title he can actually spell is FHM and oh no I really don’t want him to come talk to me and I wish he’d stop staring at me and oh god he’s coming over here.

Be cool.

“If you haven’t already read that, you should. It’s excellent.”

Full, understandable sentences.

I look up and into clear, brown eyes. “Is it?” I ask, trying my hardest to remember what book it is that’s actually in my hand. I think it’s The Pilot’s Wife by Anita Shreve. In which case this guy is either a very eclectic reader or very, very gay.
“Yes, it is,” he says, “Trust me. She’s an excellent writer.”
“Okay.” I say with a smile. (Wow, who’s the blooming conversationalist now, huh?) I take this opportunity to look down at the book in my hand, and it really is The Pilot’s Wife. “Maybe I’ll give it a shot.”

I want to kick myself. Hard. I sound completely ditzy like I have that book almost by accident. Pull yourself together, girl! You can do better than this!
“You’re an Anita Shreve fan?” I ask. Well, so much for doing better.
He laughs. A pleasant sound. “Not really. An old girlfriend suggested it once so I obliged.”
Okay well at least he’s not gay. I think.
I tuck the book in the crook of my elbow so it looks as though I’m really considering buying it. (I already own the book. I was looking at the cover because it differs from mine and I thought it looked really nice.) “So what do you really read?” And here I start to hope that the answer doesn’t consist mostly of Archie comics. I don’t have anything against Archie, okay, it’s just not too comforting if someone can’t read a publication that doesn’t have pictures in it.
“A little of everything really.” His eyes leave me and take in the books surrounding us. “I don’t have a favourite genre or anything. I’d try anything once.” He looks back at me. “Except that romance Zane-Dickey-Erotic-Thriller-All-Black-People-Do-Is-Have-Sex nonsense.”
“I totally agree with you there.” I nod vehemently. “That stuff makes my skin walk.”
He laughs again, picks a random book up off the shelf, glances at the back and then puts it back down. “Well…” He shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. I could possibly be a nervous gesture; maybe he’s run out of conversation. “I’ll let you get back to your book shopping.” His smile is warm. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you. I will.” I watch him walk away. He glances back once, still smiling and then leaves the bookstore.
I look at the book in my hand and then towards the door. I roll my eyes, thinking that’s the most pathetic conversation I’ve ever had and he probably left because I thought I’m a complete and total loser. Oh well. I put Anita back on the shelf and move to a different section of the bookstore. Not like I’ll ever see him again anyway. And he’ll probably have forgotten the whole thing by, oh I dunno, five seconds from now.

In any case, I forgot about it, and time went by (as it always does). But as is inevitable, I found myself once again browsing in the same bookstore. I’m exploring the classics this time, trying to decide between The Woman In White and Animal Farm. (I end up getting both.) It’s Saturday and I’m particularly scruffy simply because I’m in town by accident. I’d accompanied my mother grudgingly, and now as she shopped for my brothers’ schoolbooks, I stood in faded denim shorts and a shirt that displays proudly I DON’T LIKE YOU EITHER. poring over ancient literature. Hair in a rough ponytail and Bitch-Face on, you could look at me and say that the world had a formidable opponent.
“Excuse me,” comes a voice from behind me. I don’t respond, because I know that unless they are Clifford, T
Another week where my photo doesn't really have much to do with what happened. There have been wonderful things (snow, lovely pretty snow!; good friends, good company, good chat, good cat; excellent football; a New Project, which is personal; lots of Twin Peaks; and so on and so forth), and horrible things (involving injury to one of my favourite people, and rudeness) but with all of that, what do you get? You get a 'what I wore today' photo because I was pretty pleased with the fact that my nail polish matched my favourite t-shirt. Shallow? Oh, tell me about it. While I'm self-indulging, I also love this necklace, which my darling little sister gave me for my birthday, and that is a birthday bracelet too, from my friend Charly. People have evidently noticed that I like all the colours, all the time. And, yes, my favourite t-shirt depicts a dog playing a Moog with lightning bolts coming out of it. CORRECT. Oh and sometimes I like to put all my hair on top of my head and see what I'd look like with short hair. Only this sort of looks more like a bird's nest. Whatevs. This year is nearly OVAH! Much like the week, there have been great bits and horrible bits. Like all years, I suppose, but more so. It hasn't been boring. I asked my dear partner which of a couple of similar photos I should put up and he said 'You look a bit confused in that one. That's like you'. No further comment. 'well, come for the day or stay forever there's things that we all need to navigate daisy chains of lights around the city now, they glow but never quite illuminate so dance like sparks from a muzzle so dance like sparks from a muzzle and we were lit by kerosene and we were lit by acetylene and we walked under neon skies you know it made me wonder why why all the frequencies combine and form a cleaner, brighter light and we filled our fluorescent sails it led to sodium-scarred wailing weeks hey now now, oh the future's bright oh hey now now, a history of light' [British Sea Power]

he wears t shirts sometimes