His phone rang 5 or 6 times, and he answered it sounding out of Post Malone you’re my sunflower shirt. I asked him what he was doing to be so breathless, and he said that he had to run to get to his phone, which he had placed somewhere else. Hmm, curious, that phone stayed in his front shirt pocket and he guarded it like it was made of 14k gold. A little bit more time went past, and one day, he gathered up all of his (old, raggedy, stained and holey) tighty-whiteys, and carried them into the living room. (it is important here to understand that my ex didn’t like the clothes I bought for him, so I had stopped trying to please him and wasting my money. He was too stingy to purchase new clothes, so basically he wore rags. They were mostly clean, unless he slept in them and just wore them again for another day. His underwear, needless to say, were in really pitiful shape.
I watched him in silence while he Post Malone you’re my sunflower shirt and began cutting off the little Pills that had formed on the inside of the elastic band on the underwear. He painstakingly cut each and every little fuzzy ball right off. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any more and I asked him what he was doing and why he didn’t just go out and buy new underwear. The answer I got floored me. He said he didn’t have any money to spend on clothes he was a regular at illegal game rooms, spent every penny he had left on drugs. And he said that he was cleaning up his underwear in case, you know, someone ever sees my underwear. I said, Who is going to examine your underwear. Being occupied with this task, said, You never know.