A Surplus Of Cobalt Sweaters

I suffer from buyer's remorse.

I'll pull the cobalt Banana Republic sweater out of its bag, spread it across my bed, take a step back, and press my fingers against my lips. "It's too small. I need to try it on," I say to myself. So I slip it over my head and spin to face the mirror. "Fuck! It actually looks okay. Especially if I roll my shoulders back and look really bored. Arch one eyebrow and scowl. Right there." I'm almost at peace with my decision until the next thought trickles down my skull like a cracked egg: "You just paid $75 dollars for this." That's when I start to panic. "You don't have $75, remember? You still owe Joey for October utilities and Rhett's parking ticket you promised to pay because you made him park at a meter on Frenchman Street on a Saturday. Do you have any idea what you could have bought yourself with $75? Plus, it's not even that cute. You have too much blue in your closet and it will never get cold enough in South Louisiana to wear this. See if there's some daily app you can use to work on your self control. WHY ARE YOU STILL WEARING IT?! TAKE IT OFF!"

It's like this with everything. From groceries to gas, I reevaluate my decision until I'm convinced I made the wrong one. And it's all because I habitually act on impulse. I impulse buy, I impulse eat, and I impulse fuck. It's that last one that gets me into the most trouble. Mostly because there's no return policy for the people you sleep with. Instead, I'll look at my own list and take inventory of the cobalt sweaters that should've been overlooked when I was browsing:

The guy from my high school wrestling team.

Two of the three Ryans.

The Australian.

The guy on the Zuiderdam. Not the dancer. The one who worked in customer service.

The LSU theatre major.

The waiter at that hibachi place.
The Brit.
The guy who I didn't know had aspergers, but when I met him in person I realized that he did have aspergers, but I still did it anyway.

The guy who was released from prison (Not jail. Prison.) the day before it happened.

The guy with the lip ring who I met at the Rabbit Hole.
The hairdresser from Baton Rouge.

The guy from Michigan who was wearing sweatpants in June.

The white rapper.
Ron. Not Ronnie.

The guy who has Hollister bags stapled to the walls of his bedroom. 

Vinny from Italy.
The strip club bouncer who worked at Barely Legal somewhere in North Louisiana.

The guy who slept with his pants on and keys in his pocket.

The guy who brought me home to meet his parents in New Roads.

My friend's ex-fiance.

The ballet dancer.
The guy who I used to work with at that Italian restaurant.

The guy whose parents were Christian Fundamentalists.
The guy with the insulin pump in his stomach.

One of my best friends.
The guy who stopped by on his way home from Austin City Limits.
Andrew. Not Andy.
The guy that I met at my Festival International After Party when I was on house arrest.
Every guy from Lake Charles. All of them. Without exception.

The first time I felt buyer's remorse after having sex with someone was the first time I realized I can't exchange every bad decision I make. And since I'm stuck with them, I'll label them as "takesies backsies" and hide them in a bag on the top shelf of my closet. And every now and then, I'll look inside and laugh my ass off, and cringe, and punch myself in the dick.

Because let's be honest. This is all my wiener's fault anyway.