There’s a certain power in wearing ironed clothes. The feeling of starchy cotton against your skin gives you confidence; it lifts you up above mediocrity and the masses in their creased duds. It’s no mystery to me now that douchebags in pressed pants have dominated the world since we crawled from the primordial sludge waving electric irons. And now I’m one of them. Sort of.
I am not a well-groomed person. I