I personally found it hard to forget the casual way he referred to me as a whore or the general creepy ass fact that his hat had his grandma’s soul knitted into it. I mean, what the actual fuck? You couldn’t pay me to wear something like that. And I sure as shit didn’t want it near me. What if she was in it, lingering among the head sweat, dandruff and loose hairs, whispering to him about the way my skirt was too short or my attitude too slutty for her liking? Not that I gave a shit what some dried-up soul crust thought of me, but I still didn’t want her near me. The idea of her grossed me
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