Premier Savage

I immediately hatch a plan to reclaim any degree of nakedness as soon as waking hours come upon me. If a graduating class of psychiatrists were assigned to my fabric resentment, they could not devise a pill to keep me suited. This aversion is not born of vanity. I have nothing worthy to model. My anger is in the stitching. Putting an iron to it will only be heat activated violence. Life is agreeable until I put on pants. Only then does manslaughter become an equal charge in my agitated mind. When I lace my shoes, biting through a wall for good luck feels intuitively sensible. Sleeves are fish hooks and we are most certainly caught. Roll them up for relief, and spare me the joke of diligence. You see men being digested by an assortment of Venus Fly Trapped jackets. They scream into their phones making hateful eye contact with the nearest set of footsteps. They don't realize they are being eaten alive. All of my grievances outlast the spin cycle and do not come out in the wash. I put on rings simply to have something to take off during the day. It's the only thing keeping me from burying one of these swaddled manikins. Every fashion house ought to be taken apart brick by brick. I will become an aquatic fugitive if the law pursues hard after me. Under water the naked rule. Gills over cufflinks. Fins preferable to socks. The pronouncement of scales for the silence of undergarments. Deliver me from the devilry of buttons. It is the pocket that make me feral. True civility has always been uninterrupted skin.