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Wearing my sweatshirt I am warm, but still aware of the cold air around me. The cold still exists, but there is a wall of warmth between me and it. Comfort of hood and draw strings. It is not necessary for me to pull the hood over my red hair, or clasp the plastic tips of the Navy blue draw strings and tighten them. It is enough to feel the hood against my upper back, the drawstrings popping up and down against my chest as I walk. The security of knowing they are there and that I may use them at any time is enough. No one else can wear my Navy pull-over. They try and steal it from me. They want my hood, my drawstrings with the plastic ends. They take hold of the drawstrings with the plastic ends and yank, with great force, in an attempt to strangle me. But no one can pull and tie them just the right way. They grab at the sleeves, they pull the hem, they try and tear it. Use cutting remarks like newly sharpened scissors to try and alter it's appearance. I laugh softly as I stand with the wind whipping about me, enveloped in warmth, security, and assurance. I laugh at jealousy, at ignorance, at assumptions, at misunderstandings (not wanting to understand?). Don't they know K-mart has hooded sweatshirts on sale?
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