Who Cares !

Great Galloping, Gaseous Godzilla, I thought.
Look at me.
My shorts are made from the leftovers of three different plaid seersucker slacks I had made into shorts for Sally.
My wife beater t-shirt has developed holes and runs and
my shirt is a gauzy flower print shirt Erik had left behind because, he claimed, it had mysteriously shrunk.
It isn't that my stuff is second hand that is bothersome . I like second hand clothes; they have a different feel of having been used and loved. No, what bothers me is the haphazard way I had put it all together.
When did that happen ?
When did I stop thinking about what might go with some particular shorts or shirt ?
Probably when I stopped going to town all that often, because it obviously hasn't been a problem for me, and the Worthless Ones care only about me as the source of food and biscuits.
Besides, it is claimed that dogs are color blind.
Now should I change the shorts......?
NAH. Who really cares.