Today I went with my friend Daniel to the hugeass / fucking overwhelming Goodwill Outlet in SODO. I had never been there before. I go to places like Value Village all the time, but the Goodwill Outlet took the thriftstore minimalistic environment to an industrial level I wasn't prepared for.
(Why does Goodwill need an outlet? Isn't it already the outlet of all outlet stores?)
The rubbermaid buckets were overflowing with clothing, books, tchotchkies, kitchen appliances, lightbulbs, bras... and digging through it all felt dangerous. Dampness was foremost on my mind. As was brown stains. Or lacy anything.
My friend Daniel has an unhealthy relationship with the citizens of Seattle who are giving away their suits to Goodwill. Please stop giving them away to Daniel. He has enough and, as I remind him, not every day is dress-like-a-an-out-of-touch-businessman-ironically-day. I don't care if you can buy 8 for only 6 dollars because they don't weigh very much. YOO HAVE TOO MUCH CRAP.
Anyone who wants to feel abused and upset can read someone's just-tossed Ann Coulter book, "How to Talk To A Liberal (if you must)" located in the back right bin. After I'd exhausted all the levels of the game on my phone, I began to read the book. Eight pages later and my head was spinning with enough dogma about Liberal Gay Hollywood Socialist Conspiracy Theories To Destroy America that I could have written a very bad very angry letter. Goodwill-I am offended by the placement of that book on the top of the heap. Can someone please come and bury it underneath that coffee-stained 1977 edition of "Women's World" where no one will ever think to look? Thank you.
Daniel was scarily good at mechanically sifting crap from discarded jewels (like Ferragamo shoes). He had the search and seize movements down, his eyes darted everywhere, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed. Watching him was like watching a Project Runway contestant clawing his way through an overpriced fabric store bin. Or a homeless person, desperate for clothing. Either / or.
Not to go all Chuck Klosterman on your ass, but I sometimes feel like Daniel and I simply act out Project Runway when we shop. I feel more comfortable criticizing his choice of dress because we'd just watched Michael Kors ape on that unfortunate overly tanned dude from West Seattle on television. Daniel doesn't get angry at me because the Project Runway Fashion Gods are watching us both interact, nodding their heads in silent approval.
