A photo.
Of a man-sized white t-shirt stretched across what I can only assume is his kitchen table. It’s covered in glitter, surprisingly good handwriting, and what appears to be a decent attempt at bedazzling.
In the middle, like some neon-lit declaration of shame, it reads:
SORRY FOR BEING A DICK!
TEXT ME FOR FURTHER APOLOGIES
(555) 977-1529
I choke on a crumb. My client asks if I’m okay. And then I swipe to the next photo.
The back.
I’M SORRY TEXTUALLY FRUSTRATED!
I AM SEEKING REDEMPTION!
PLEASE DON’T BLOCK ME!
I stop breathing.
Not out of horror.
Out of pure, awe-struck disbelief that this man not only created this masterpiece but sent it tome. Sober, presumably.
I stare at the phone. Then the wall. Then the phone again.
This cannot be real.
This is either:
A) The dumbest apology I’ve ever received.
B) The best apology I’ve ever received.
C) A textbook case of glitter manipulation… and unfortunately, it’s working.
My fingers move.
You made a glitter shirt?
A statement piece, actually.
Is this… punishment? Or performance art?
Yes.
And the phone number? Really?
If I must suffer, I want strangers to witness it.
I laugh. Out loud.Loudly.
It’s too much. It’s absolutely too much.
And exactly enough.
