It Was Grey, Grey Like the Purgatory of Your Own Conflicted Emotions

To my stalker, taking the grey t-shirt had seemed like such a good--or at least, impossible-to-ignore--idea at the time. But every time she walked into her bedroom and saw my shirt on the pillow she'd dressed with it--a pillow to which she'd added a purple smiley-face-emblazoned balloon for a head, reasoning, "He's bald, after all"-- she felt a deep shame. Eventually it got to be too much. She moved to Peru, trying to escape her compulsions.

(How clean a break did she make? She took the t-shirt with her. She did, however, pop the balloon.)

But try as she might, she couldn't escape the feeling of something important missing from her life. After eight months, she had to move back.

Welcome back, my dear. I still want my t-shirt.

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