...but I could give a flying FUCK about your new shoes, your new car or the "awesome" vacation you just took. I'll direct my frustration convienently at this guy I worked the door with last week at work. "John" is a really nice college kid, who happens to work at a fancy-pants sneaker boutique in Wicker Park.
His biggest concern in life is how best to subtley advertise the new $200 pair of kicks fresh from Japan without tipping off the owners/employees of the neighboring sneaker boutiques. GOD FORBID THEY LEARN WHEN THEY WILL DROP THEM!
And here I am, coughing my lungs out, sick as shit, without access to healthcare (i.e., no insurance), 8 years his senior, and with this shitty 1 night a week "job" making $50, and grateful for it. I'm trying to make fucking RENT and EAT; I care NOT about your mylar infused boots that were made specially for YOU in Italy. DICK!
UGH, this is why I haven't been blogging, as I doubt anyone wants to listen to me bitch. [END OF BITCH-FEST-TRANSMISSION.]