(I’m on a roll with this blog)
I hate long sleeves. Most of the time.
I’m almost always T-shirt Guy, wearing any number of punk-branded, black-backgrounded upper-arm-coverers, in my daily life. But when I was at school or, gods forbid, am wearing a suit, I roll up my sleeves. I don’t like the feeling of having sleeves flapping around my wrists and hands, which I’ve always associated with action, even if said ‘actions’ are just sitting on a stool at the Knights’ Templar pub and chatting with people.
But there are exceptions; a worrying number of them considering how strongly I dislike something as simple as a long-sleeved shirt. Suit jackets are fine – I don’t roll those sleeves up because it’s a bit cumbersome and inconsistency is the definition of the human condition; athletic baselayers that reach my wrists are okay because they’re snug and I’m a hypocrite; hoodies are grand because I like wearing baggy, hooded things and don’t have a coherent identity.
At the moment, however, I’m wearing a hoodie with the sleeves rolled up and, honestly, I don’t really know how to respond to this. So I wrote an incoherent blog post off the back of three hours of essay-writing. Hooray!