Thursday, August 04, 2005

For fuck’s sake. I’m making trying to attempt to “make” my own custom fitted tees by ironing words on them. Words printed on special transfer paper. Words that fit in sentences. Which are funny. I think.

Anyhoo, things are not well. They are not even close to well. I read the instructions and I followed them meticulously, hypothetically speaking.

See, I cut the words in the various sentences apart so that I can place them wherever I want. It’s already hard enough for me to put all those words back together in the right order, but since my motoring skills have seized to evolve since age four (I never could draw within the lines of the fucking illustration), it is just a disaster waiting to show it’s ugly ass face.

Apparently you are not supposed to iron over the parts of the shirt with words on them after you’re done with them. When, hypothetically speaking, one does do that, the substance that just came off the transfer paper and is now on the shirt will stick to the bottom of your flat-iron. And when one, hypothetically speaking, continues to iron, the substance on the bottom will permanently stain parts of the shirt.

After the words have been ironed onto the shirt, one has to let it cool. When it has completely cooled, one may remove the transfer paper. How hard can that be? Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, the paper is removed too soon and too roughly, a part of the substance on the transfer paper which should stay on the shirt will remain on the transfer paper, causing the words to have holes in it.

Now, one has to fixate the transferred image. Immediately after the transfer paper and the protective baking paper have been removed, one has to again apply the baking paper and iron over it to remove excess ink. No pressure must be applied and the baking paper has to be removed within a few seconds after the ironing has stopped. Hypothetically speaking, when one does not exactly follow these instructions, more of the image will come off the shirt and this time will stick to the baking paper.

What will be left is a colourful stained shirt with words written on it which cannot be read properly because of holes galore and are also in the wrong order.

No one will ever be giving me coke for fucking with a shirt like this.

I am a coordination deficient, dyslectic, not a good follower of instructions and a complete and utter “what the hell were you thinking ironing crap onto your new shirt when you cannot even iron a shirt without the crap and you have not ever been near a flat-iron in this life or any life for that matter and you know you’re hand movement is gnarly because you have trouble tying your own goddamn shoes ” dickhead.

Hypothetically speaking.


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