Besides, when you’re a little chunky, and you’ve always been a little chunky, you tend not to fall in love with any one item of clothing, because chances are, you won’t fit into it in a few months anyway. (Except, of course, shoes, although there are those moments in life when you discover you’ve somehow gotten too fat for those, too, and you’ll want to die more than ever. I mean, really? How much weight do you have to gain to get too fat for your shoes?)

Worst of all, clothes are expensive as fuck. Especially good clothes that are flattering and look nice and don’t immediately fall apart the second you put them on. Why spend eighty dollars on a quality shirt when that same money could buy four and a half chicken-alfredo dinners with a side of garlic knots from the Olive Garden? Looking like shit is just economical.

All the same, there comes a time in every young gay’s life when he must contend with the clothes on his back, and I’ve made my choices. I’ve finally settled on a uniform of plaid button-downs, blue jeans, and sneakers—a simple outfit that looks like I’ve put in at least minimal effort without having to think about it. But it took years to perfect this image, and plenty of trial and error (mostly error) to get the perfect look. I present to you: fashion through the ages, or my troubled history with clothing.

THE ATHLETICA AGE: Like all homosexual children, I was a victim of circumstances, and by circumstances, I mean my parents’ terrible choices. Dissatisfied to wallow in their own shoulder-padded misery alone, they imprisoned me in all manner of sports-themed onesies, overalls, and jumpers, full of baseballs, footballs, and tennis rackets, striped to look like a referee or, God forbid, an actual athlete, all before I could even walk or speak. I don’t mean to overexaggerate, but this, plain and simple, was textbook heterosexual indoctrination, and I blame it for everything wrong in my childhood, including the brief stint I spent in basketball camp, where I was forced to learn such propaganda terms as “free throw,” “layup,” and “dribble.” Even worse, almost every portrait of me from the first year of my life is staged with an actual, real-life football that they made me touch, cuddle, and smile beside. It was horrifying.

And I know some of you are thinking, “THEY’RE BABY CLOTHES! THEY’RE CUTE! WHAT DO YOU WANT INSTEAD? GENDERLESS PILLOW SACKS WITH LIMB HOLES?” And the answer is yes. I would prefer genderless pillow sacks with limb holes. Perhaps babies of the future will be spared the indignity of having to look back and see their infant selves cradling sports equipment.