The only thing better than being great, is being the best, and that’s what I am: the best.
Sweaters slink away as I stroll by. Pants want me, and dress shirts want to be me. I make a room full of designer labels look like an aisle at your local Goodwil.
It wasn’t always like this, though. I used to be a throwaway, passed to whatever undeserving slob happened to show up and claim me. Long days, and longer nights, in the back of overstuffed, stink-ridden closets, every fiber of my being surrounded by unfiltered mediocrity.
But then I met Yasmani.