#armpit stains

[donutsandbagels]

Since it’s insufferably hot and humid here, I will label this a “super sweaty Steve Sunday” post!

[teenvogue]

Sweat a lot? 

This is for you >>

[acutestyle]

How to remove armpit stains from dress shirts.

Two things. One, I sweat a lot at work. I teach high school math for a living. I do four 55 minute performance a day in a classroom where the temperature fluctuates between St. Thomas, V.I. and St. Petersburg, Russia. So I sweat. Two, I don’t like to spend money if I don’t have to. I try to take good care of my things whether they cost a little or a lot. I’d rather fix something old than buy something new.

That being said, I was at odds about what to do about the armpit stains on my dress shirts. I take special care when laundering my shirts, but the armpit stains stay put. I thought seriously about just buying new shirts, but the shirts are in good condition otherwise and some of the patterns are hard to find. So I’ve tried various methods to get the stains out, but nothing has worked…until now.

I’ll provided more details at a later time, but I used OxiClean a la the methods advised at the Art of Manliness. I wish I had pictures to show you, but the results are profound. I’ll take some pictures the next time I do it and provide before and after pictures.

[whathappenedwhileiwasstillyoung]

Personal Secrets Social Media Has Unveiled – Outfits

Alright Sherlock Holmes, so you figured out I only have like, three fucking shirts that I rotate through. Get off your high horse. Go suck a turd. Your life is shit if there isn’t a crusty, crotch-less, pockets-of-drunk-night-mystery pair of jeans in your closet. You don’t know what true harlequin love is until there is a T-shirt so far gone and unrecognizable past the rippling amber armpit stains. Intimacy is knowing you shouldn’t keep anything important in that blown-out pocket of your sweater, or pull too hard on the drawstring of your belt which is literally holding your gut up by a thread. Bullshit. Admit that you spend every waking moment plotting who you’re going to see on what days of the week and how you can coordinate that time wearing that one outfit without looking like a homeless douche. Class Tuesdays and Thursdays; work Monday, Wednesday; going out drinking on Friday; Saturday and Sunday at home. Play your cards right and you can wear that shirt four days out of seven and nobody will be any wiser for it. But no, there’s Facebook.

Fuck you, Facebook. You’re always watching, always judging. I can’t post a goddamn picture.

So yes, my friends have called me out on this like I’m cheating on them. ‘Oh Collette, I thought you were dressing up nice for my graduation but you wore that same shirt the next day in Vegas!’ Yeah, get the shit over it. It’s comfortable and I can be fat in it and it doesn’t make my armpits flow like the Nile. ‘Oh Collette, did you really run two marathons? You’re wearing the same shirt in this year’s photo and last.’ Yes, I believe a year is enough time to wear something again. And I happen to like that shirt very much.

I hate you all. You assholes need to be happy you can only see the three shirts because you would shit yourselves if you saw the recycle rotation of my underwear.