Every once in a while I succumb to the charm and inherent impracticality of a white shirt, with a firm belief that this will be the one; the one that is able to dodge the stray splashes propelled by the chopsticks in their earnest attempt to pick up that elusive piece of meat from that bowl of noodle soup, the turmeric stain on the cuff from an Indian meal, the red wine spatter from that very first drink, for the white shirt deserved a fitting toast; or those mysterious smears, allegedly from friendly pats and innocent nudges, or from those strangers brushing past, all malicious, of course; or the excess from your new, vibrantly coloured, clothes as they tumbled together in the washer. Alas, it is a white shirt, inevitably destined to surrender to the elements, (much) sooner rather than later.
Relatable?
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