sometimes (for example when one has been by one’s favourite tattoo parlour to serve as moral support (and also to drop off some cookies for the boys)) one finds oneself to be suddenly in possession of fantabulous t-shirts.
if one then finds that said t-shirts are somewhat on the too largish side despite being labeled small, one gets out one’s trusty scissors and cuts off a bit here and a bit there, until one has a tank top. one then puts the tank top on and says to oneself this might now quite possibly be the most comfortable thing i own.
(somewhere in between the acquiring and the cutting, one can make an appointment to get more personal decoration done by mr big fat joe (who is, you’ll be interested to know, neither big, fat, nor a joe, really). one of the mysteries of life).
one can then start wondering why one is talking about oneself in the third person. one can then argue that it is better than a We, as used by royals and, every now and then, the annoying kind of nurse, which one will consider and eventually agree is, indeed, true, but not really an answer to the question.
then one will quite firmly tell oneself it’s time for bed.