The soft fabric digs at my chewed at fingertips.  The scent of mothballs, dried sweat, and stale closet air wafts through my nose.  Stacks of clothing surround me, each piece with it's own set of memories.
This dress was modified and shortened by one of my best friends at college.  These sweat pants that say "Allentown" on the side, came from my high school: New Jersey - not Pennsylvania, thank you very much. This tee shirt came from the first NEARfest that I arrived in time to receive a size small.  This pair of pants was given to me by my best friend's mother when she lost a ton of weight.  This skirt came from a dumpster diving mission, but the elastic bit the dust.  This bodice came from my first, and probably only, trip to the Renaissance Faire.  These tee shirts came from woot.com, a site that Adrian and I still check on a daily basis.  This pair of gauchos was worn on the first "Talk Like A Pirate Day," that I participated in.  This shirt, was my mother's, it is a tour shirt from King Crimson's Discipline.  I wore this pair of shoes every day for almost two years.  These wife beaters I started wearing during guard practice because womens' "boyfriend beaters" didn't allow me to move as fluidly.  This couple of shirts came from my Hot Topic phase - before it was trendy to shop at Hot Topic; remember how my friends used to be literately afraid of the store?  This pin, ah, this pin is the pin that each of my friends from college have; one Christmas we made these for them as a sign of friendship.
Stories, stories, stories.  Oh, the stories our possessions could tell if only they could speak.  I almost cried going through my old clothing for a goodwill trip.  These clothes were only taking up space in my closet, never even were they looked at.  I dubbed a number of old tee shirts "hanger shirts," or shirts that are falling apart or don't fit, but have too much emotional value to get rid of.  Concert shirts that make me smile, even though they haven't fit me in years or have been worn so often they're beginning to shred; shirts that had been painted on for guard, but are again too small and rather uncomfortable; they're all wonderful.

Good will lets these pieces of clothes continue their journey.  I love wearing used clothing because there's a story there, just under the surface.  It feels like I just need to brush the surface and my mind will be open to all these stories that I cannot even fathom.

Well, I typed up the first 8 or 9 pages of my unofficial Nanowrimo.  It brings me to about 2,000 words, give or take.  I certainly won't hit 50,000 words before November is over, but I'll be excited if I last after the first week.  I usually don't.  Of course, still no editing, except when I come across a sentence that just really makes no sense.  I'll edit later - get rid of the fluff and fix the 8 billion tense problems.

[[Snippet]]
"She stepped onto the narrow platform, placing her hand on the cold metal barrier. The door swung quietly closed behind her.  The scent of old chlorine still penetrated through the room. The pool had been covered by concrete years before, but if one closed their eyes, they could still imagine the huge score board full of the names, times, and ranks of the best swimmers on the team. She closed her eyes. Leaving one hand on the railing, she reached her other hand back behind her, towards the pale blue tiles on the wall behind her. Leaning her back against the chilly tiles, she slid all the way down until she was sitting on the floor, knees touched her chin and she grasped at her ankles."

[[Snippet]]
"Grabbing her cellphone and the keys to the room, she closed the door and went down the hall towards the stairs. She had to go quietly and quickly, peering in at Kay and willing her not to look up. She didn't want to answer any questions about where she'd been or where she was going. She knew Kay wouldn't approve of either answer.

She walked down the stairs thinking that one of these nights she was going to choose the wrong night to come down here and he was going to be with another woman. I just hope it's not tonight, she prayed. She knocked softly on door, which swung open at her light touch. Well, that's probably a good sign that he's alone or that his roommate is home tonight. His roommate being home amounted to the same thing. He'd be alone. She inhaled deeply the scent of dried Axe deodorant and unwashed clothing. There was something comforting about how constant that scent was, in every straight boys' dorm room, she had ever visited. Soft snoring came from his roommate's bed. Granted, that was usually during the day, and not at four thirty in the morning. She smiled to herself at the sound of the snoring, remembering the morning she had woken up after Devin had left for class and teased … Oh, what's his name? … about his snoring."