Black (Shirt) Sabbath

I wear only black t-shirts because there is no god.

Let me explain.

I am Greek….let me explain further.

When I say I am Greek I don’t mean I live on Milledge and drink shit beer.

No I mean I am legit Greek. As in feta cheese, shit music, hairy women, hairier men and questionable histories regarding soldiers and their young wards.

As such I was raised Greek Orthodox.

Many moons ago I lost my religion. I say that like it fell out of my pocket on during a lovely jaunt down yonder road. Actually it was more like a nasty breakup with a young lady who liked gold and perfume way too much.

While I never have missed the faith, I have felt some kind of hole in my (black) heart.

You must understand, the Orthodox don’t fuck around. They have a whole set of rituals and procedures. Its Jesus meets LARPing, with a whole mess of incense (I said INCENSE, this isn’t Game of Thrones).

As such, I felt the need to supplement those old religious rituals for some new ones, and about three years ago I found my ritualistic replacement, black t-shirts.

What started as a like for the feel and color a particular shirt has become something so much more.

To be specific St. Johns Bay Black Tee’s, no pockets. This strict adherence to just one type of shirt is akin to the adherence to one sect of dogma.

Any other shirt would be heresy.

Moving on, here is how the rituals work.

I have approximately 14 of these black beauties. Every two weeks I do Black T-Shirt Laundry (This is a proper noun to me damnit!). The washing machine cleans away all the dirt in grim the same way baptism cleans the soul. The dryer then acts as confession making the shirts dry and wearable the same way confession makes the weight of one’s sins bearable.

Then I fold my shirts very neatly. This is my supplement for the Stations of the Cross, folding the shirt over onto itself.

When the folding is done all the shirts go on little table right outside my door.

I grab one from the top of the pile and put it on as I walk out of my room. Placing the same exact type of shirt on every day replaces me lighting a candle and kissing the icons every day.

When the pile is gone, I know it’s time to “re-affirm my faith” by starting the rituals all over with a new “baptism.”

In only a matter of hours, with the fresh stack of St. Johns Bay Black Tee’s, no pockets sitting monolithically outside my door, I am born anew.