You were the balding 40ish guy in the tattered spring suit and the fun board who was changing next to my friend and me at Cottons last Sunday. Apparently, you really needed to expand your wardrobe—you snaked my T-shirt from the rock near you while we were conversing and watching the surf. There's no other explanation for how it went missing. It didn't walk off by itself. Let me ask you this: What kind of grown-ass man are you to steal like a little middle-school punk? Do you possess an ounce of dignity? You can afford a surfboard—unless you jacked that, too. It's not exactly a love fest out there in the water, especially on a weekend south swell. But at least there was an unspoken trust that belongings would remain unmolested while our backs were turned. Not anymore, I guess. Now we have to worry about you rifling through them when the opportunity presents itself. That behavior leads me to believe you live in a van down by the river and truly needed more than me the shirt I'd been sweating in all day. Or you have issues and need to take the money you saved on a T-shirt and buy yourself some therapy.
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