No One's Listening So You Can Use Your Indoor Voice.

My workplace has regressed into something so intellectually retarded and bankrupt it honestly doesn't warrant mentioning anymore. Seriously. It has officially lost enough relevance to even comment on.

This weekend on the other hand was a frenzy of neo-bourgeois activity. Having a hankering for something of the Ann Demeulemeester variety I began my weekend earlier than Jesus on Robertson boulevard, where upon entry into the local Starbucks I noticed that I had been marching around with a missing sunglass lens. Realizing I either looked immensely chic or horribly tragic I ditched the one lens wonder and began to assess and quietly judge the patrons of this strangely busy Starbucks. I had to wait behind two loud talking girls with cheap clothes coordinated with their best pair of marked down True Religion jeans. Robertson ultimately had nothing for me.

While trying to make my way to Sunset Plaza I was caught, quite unaware, in the gravitational field of The Beverly Center. It happened so suddenly I had to revert to my consumer instincts. There was obviously nothing for me in the Beverly Center. There was a nice Suicidal Tendencies t-shirt I thought might be nice for Compadre, but I wavered too long and the staff repelled me.

I finally made it up to Sunset Plaza where I slinked into H. and they only had five miserable shirts. Five. Predictably in a choice of white or black. I wasn't feeling it. They had some Literature jeans I should have tried on, but I was weary and I still hadn't picked up my dry cleaning.

The dry cleaners was a mess albeit an insanely hot latin stud telling me why my shirts weren't done mess. I killed the time by heading over to Undefeated where they luckily had a pair of Nike Air Max skull packs in my size. Gray green colorway. Fuck street culture and it's tired ass lingo.