Dear Diary (as imagined by the sleeveless T-shirt)

“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”

— Juliet Capulet

Hah! Poppycock, pure and simple. What other word than “simple” should you use to address some besotted sixteen year old? As if those sixteen years provided here with any depth of wisdom.

Kunta Kinte knew that. His name was Kunte, not Toby Waller.
Do we really think Reek is the same person as Theon Greyjoy?

No, and that’s why I insist you call me by my true name, Sleeveless T-Shirt.

I am not a muscle shirt. Skinny and underdeveloped men and women the world over revel in my comfort and coolness. Why restrict my use to the muscled?

I am not a tank top. Tank suits were bathing costumes worn in the 1920s. I’m not your grandpa’s upper body clothing. This is the 21st Century, baby. Climb on board.

Tube top? Forget it. Completely different garment, best suited to well-developed females highlighting their mammalian properties. Un, unh. No way, baby. I’m an equal opportunity piece of clothing. Men and women both. And I have straps, baby. STRAPS! Aint’ no tube top got what I got. Straps, I say baby, straps.

Guinea tee? Derogatory and racist term. Enough said.

Derogatory? Listen to this. The worst, absolute worst …. god, I hate to even say it … is “wife beater.” Wife beater? Are you kidding me? What the hell does spousal abuse have to do with a comfortable and cool garment which can also be used to absorb perspiration when worn as an undergarment? Puhleeeze!

Sleeveless T-shirt, that’s who I am and I will thank you to call me by my proper name.

(You in Britain are allowed the use of “vest” and you in New Zealand “singlet.” I am nothing if not versatile and international.)