I’m wearing the sweatshirt I stole from my older brother back when I was young enough to do that kind of thing. He was away at college. It’s black with cut-off sleeves; they’re frayed now. There used to be a stencil on the back–his design–a combination horse’s butt and beer bottle in white paint with Horse’s Ass Pilsner written somewhere. I don’t remember where. All of that part is faded into oblivion. It’s gone. But somehow the rest is fine, possibly held together by layers of splattered oil paint: mostly yellow and blue. Some red. Some green. Some white house paint from the near-constant renovating. And I put it on over my other clothes almost every day. I guess it’s a uniform. Because being an artist–someone who makes things–is supposed to be my job.