The cruelties of the sweater of misery.

I once acquired a sweater of misery from some local over-priced thrift store.

It was black as night and seemed to be made from thousands of tiny crawling beetles. It was narrow-shouldered and bulged outward at the waist. The one shoulder was already torn open. It provided no shielding from the wind, and it was pretty damned uncomfortable to wear.

Let's go back to the beginning. I don't remember why I bought that dreadful thing, but I'm still not rid of it. Perhaps it was a joke, or perhaps I was taking the fall for the rest of you?

The first time I wore it out, I felt so embarrassed to be wearing such a ghastly thing that I wore my winter jacket inside the bar for much of the night.

It wasn't a case of "look at that square in the sweater!" It was "look, he's covered in tiny black beetles."

Sometimes I talk about it and people say "sweater of misery?" and furrow their brows. So, I decide to wear it the next time I go out with them, and this is when it gets its laughs at my expense.

I plotted to wear it to show a girl when she and a boy and I went to see some revolutionary film. I was supposed to drop by her place on my way to the theatre.

Twenty minutes before I said I'd be at her door and thirty-five before the movie was to start, I was still in my damned third-floor stairwell debating whether I should take the bus or bike. There was a mean wind blowing.

I decided to take the bus. This was a bad decision, because I god downtown in half an hour, and ran to her house, and there was no answer, so I power- walked to the theatre and found that the movie had already started, and of course my sweater of misery shrouded me in the darkness and made me seem to be perhaps some walking, swarming termite's nest.

I watched the movie by myself. To you, sweater, I pledge:

One day, when you don't expect it, I will construct a wooden statue of Hitler and I will put you on it, and then I will douse you both in gasoline and burn you both to hell.

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