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The wall is finally starting to make sense. #phew
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[text: “we learned a valuable lesson today”, photograph of a burning car melting to the pavement in a parking lot full of other cars that don’t care]
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This is going to be me this weekend
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untitled by monsters and ghosts on Flickr.
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Judy, you are awesome.
VICE WRITERS
Music Reviews
Rating: X(((((((
Ladies, imagine being a Vice writer. Just walking around everywhere with your entitlement and ennui and midlength penis all gently bouncing in step; wearing a male tank top or a waxed mustache or some shit. Imagine having an ironic, retro-sexist dudebro-voice and getting together with a couple of other white guys and some cocaine and making your not-at-all-different voices all sync up as tautly as your nihilistic senses of humor, then snuggling all up together (no homo!) in a big Bushwick loft of partially employed trust-fund kids while something noninformative is happening on the Internet. What a life. I guess there’s the whole “everyone in the world thinks I’m an asshole” thing to deal with, too, but let’s not split hairs here: Vice writers got it pretty fucking made. -
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3 weeks in NYC: by the numbers
Subway rats seen: 2
Commutes past the new World Trade Center: 24
Amazing roommates I’ve lived with: 2
Socks lost: 1
Brooklyn Lagers had: 6
New friends made: 12
Stairs climbed on the subway: 4,367 (estimated)
Weight lost by stair-climbing: 8 lbs
Pad thais had: 3
Taxis taken: 4
Rooftop patios hung out on: 2
Trips to Brooklyn: 2
NYPD police officers that have said hi to me: 3
Amazing times had: 3 weeks
Times I’ve teared up missing Toronto: 3