Once upon a time there was a shirt in my closet. It was a beautiful shirt made of the purest golden threads and with the finest tailoring and the most intricate of detail; each thread supporting the others and making a fine and wonderful shirt. The shirt was much loved and adored and many complimented me on its beauty and its fine work. I was very happy with it and how it made me feel and how hid some of my own imperfections helping make me more than I actually was.
The shirt stood the tests of time and many washings and unfortunate mishaps. However, over the years, it became a little tight as I neglected my own fitness and indulged the many pleasures of a privileged life. As it became tighter and tighter I wore it less but on occasion I would pull it out and put it on. I thrilled to see the fine threads and the sheen of the fabric and the buttons of the finest jewels. I adored the shirt and myself in it but I was too embarrassed to wear it out to be seen.
The shirt seemed to mock me for what I had become and so I took it from its hangar and put it on but, alas, it could not fit me anymore and so I swore at it and screamed at it and began to pull at its seams so that it would fit me once again. But as I pulled and stretched, the fine threads began to give way and tore asunder at the seams. I put it on again and I could fasten the buttons but, alas, the shirt was no longer beautiful. It was a mass of shredded thread and no longer hid my body but put it on display for all to see and mock. I had lost both my shirt and myself.
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