A clean shirt is both a blessing and a curse.

It opens doors. It whispers: I belong here.
You pass through lobbies and restaurants without question. No one side-eyes you at the hostess stand. No one assumes you’re there to fix the plumbing.

You’re respectable. Composed. Untouchable.

But let a single drop of coffee land on your chest, and everything changes.

People don’t see you anymore; they see The Stain.
Strangers avert their eyes. Mothers pull their children closer.

“Don’t look, darling — he didn’t keep his shirt clean.”

Job interview? Forget it.
Promotions? Not for people like you.

So you learn quickly: keep it clean.
Move carefully. Avoid the crowded street with the hot dog vendors. Stick to the sterile corporate corridors.

Don’t sit on park benches. Don’t lean on walls. Don’t brush against humanity.

Don’t eat pasta with red sauce.
Don’t eat at all if possible.
Don’t sweat.
Don’t bleed.

Soon, it’s not just fabric you’re protecting.
The shirt becomes a symbol.
A shield.
A prison.

The clean shirt says you’re controlled, composed, civilized. It says you’re not one of those chaotic, unwashed people who let life touch them.

And here’s the catch: in keeping your shirt clean, you end up tailoring your whole existence.

You stop thinking dangerous thoughts.
You avoid messy ideas the way you avoid muddy puddles.

The shirt keeps your body tidy — but it hems in your mind too.

And God forbid you imagine life with a stained shirt. That’s unthinkable. Maybe alone, at home, where no one can see you — but in public? Out here in the world? No. Never.

You must preserve the shirt at all costs.

Because a stain is more than a stain.
A stain means failure.
A stain means exile.

But somewhere deep down, a question stirs:

What if you let the coffee spill?
What if you tore off the shirt, rolled in the dirt, climbed the fence, ripped the fabric —
lived like you weren’t afraid of the world touching you?

Would people scream?
Would society collapse?

Or would you, for the first time, actually breathe?