“That is a capital V,” my son said when he saw his father this morning. Four inches below the nipple, a farmer could grow crops in Jonathan’s exposed cleavage. Apparently the grandma’s nightie that Jonathan was wearing was supposed to be a T-shirt.
Jonathan has been on the hunt for the perfect white V-neck T-shirt. He has probably 30 but these are not The One. These 30 odd shirts, friends, are useless. “I’ve been everywhere and I can’t find a good deep V,” he is shaking his head at the breakfast table (which is actually just a table in the kitchen, we don’t have tables for every meal as that would be some Michael Jackson level shit). “H&M, Gap, Banana Republic, Victoria’s Secret.” I don’t know if he said the last one but the point is the list seemed pretty long and exhaustive.
Now to go on this level of quest, one has to believe that there is a pot of gold waiting. Jonathan must have something like this in his sights:
