There is no condition that turns affection into hatred faster than the casual loss of a glove. This pair of gloves were the best – soft and fleecy, not to puffy, professional looking yet rugged with extra grippy palms that could catch a football and cab equally well. Now I hates them. Or it.
One of them is in a blood-filled gutter or a bird’s nest or wherever lost gloves end up when they disappear in the city. The other one will sit in my drawer for the next two winters while I hope to accidently take a ride in the same taxi that I took on Tuesday. Fuck you lost glove for getting lost. And fuck you other glove for not getting lost and being an asshole loner. No one likes you. Enjoy those mustard packets and dried out Bic pens for the next few years. They’re your new family.
On the plus side, though, that taxi ride ended with a delicious sausage, deep-dish Chicago pizza and this poster.
If I only knew someone with a baby we could put this in their nursery.
Yea! Illinois! You’re in the news all the time now because you’re great and birth corndogs!