What do you think is being said in this?

The garbs are fresh, clean, barely worn. They've embraced skin for maybe a meager moment. The linen of your blouse, so delicate and taintless, it awaits your maladroit slip of the hand. The mustard from your hotdog weaves it's way into the woven fibers, only to be locked in. You're different; everyone sees the blemish above your breast pocket and, just like that, you're alienated. Alone until they've all done it and made it acceptable, even sought-after. We've all blended once again, that is, until someone's scraped their knee.