Red stains, pouring down all over me

Here's a story that would be funny if it wasn't for the fact that it's not funny:

In the short time between work and band practice last night, I changed into jeans, but kept on the light blue shirt I'd worn for work. It's one of my favorites, even though it's doesn't fit me quite right, just like all of my shirts. But it's a nice color, and actually fools me into thinking, "Oh, you handsome devil" when I catch myself in the mirror. So please note—because this is important to the rest of the story—that I like this shirt. A lot.

Band practice involved alcohol¹, and in the usual amounts (read: a lot). So we're all a little sloppy and when we head to an overpriced restaurant afterwards, one of The Horns, in a fit of joke-y excitement, knocks his water all over the table and on to me. No big deal at all.

But then, just after I order my dinner, one of our party looks and me and says, "What happened to your shirt?!" I look down, and there's massive red stains all over the front of my shirt. Strangely enough, the spilled water had caused the red menu to bleed into my shirt when I held it for a second against my chest. The waiter brought out some stain-cleaner and soda water, but that, of course, did nothing. Nothing gets red out. Any murderer will tell you that.

It put me in a pretty foul mood. I could tell that my new mood was being evaluated as overdramatic, but the observant reader may remember that it was one of my favorite shirts. And...it was a shirt I really liked in a closet full of shirts that I don't like. So it was just that much more precious.

The worst part is that now I need to go shopping. And I hate shopping.

¹ This time, instead of beer, it was champagne to celebrate The Lead Singer's impending getting-hitched-ness, which made for an interesting practice: in a basement, playing overly-loud, and stopping in between songs to sip champagne out of elegant glass flutes.