Free Jeans

This is what I have to look forward to in life: Free Jeans. As I work at a magazine, and as I work in fashion, I basically work for free. As a fashion editor, though, the perks are free things, commonly referred to as swag by everyone else but me. These things, this shit, as I like to call it, consist of but are not limited to, XL t-shirts (hi, faggot fashion editors are not XL), rapper alarm clocks, ugly shoes, canvas tote bags, small bottles of new PREMIUM liquor, and last but not least, Free Jeans. I get so many goddamned jeans I could clothe fucking Africa in original selvedge ringspun Japanese denim. Most of them look the same, too, and strangely, jeans in the $100-$200 range are much nicer than jeans in the $300-$500 range, which consist mostly of such hand-finished details as hand-painted whiskers, hand-stitched back pockets, embroidered bullshit, resin coating, hand-painted whiskers ON TOP of 3-D whiskers, hand-sanding, hand-holing, and hand-balling (FUCK YEAH! [oh that's a joke BTW]). Today, I got a free pair of jeans AND an XL electric blue pima cotton t-shirt. And tonight, after the parties I'll probably have an additional free pair of pumps! Throw this in and a salary that amounts to barely above minimum wage, and you get a grumpy ass man. As I was telling a cute, yet not so smart friend of mine, "I literally make my salary a year in free shit."

"Coooool!" he replied.

"No, not cool dude, I make less than my rent a month."

"Oh dude, sorry. So what do you do with all that free stuff?"

Satan

So I'm going down in an elevator in Midtown, and this woman gets on at the next floor, one of those New York ladies, please excuse my Californian ignorance but she could have been from Jersey, Queens, Long Island, they all kinda sound the same to me, she's this kind of permed, acrylic manicured, yet jogging suit, plastic furniture, and macrame plant holder holding carefully tended geraniums type of lady, but not so much that she's fantastic, really, just an ordinary lady, who happens to be checking me out, head to toe, shirt, pants, shoes, hair, facial hair, eyes, eyebrows, scowl, bulge, tilt the head and try to get an outline of the ass, tilt the head more to fully stare at tattoos. After a while of this, and of me staring straight at her wondering why the fuck she's looking at me like this with some weird glazed expression of happiness, and why her head is so tilted and so fixated on my arm, probably wondering about that devil holding a bichon frise number on my right forearm, her face registers an epiphany of sorts. Nineteen floors to go.

"You're goin' for that devil look, aren'tcha?" she asks me, satisfied.

I make out a fickle chuckle and mumble "Uh huh," confusedly. I am in the elevator with a work person that I just met, trying to be polite and pleasant.

"Well, it LOOKS GOOD. Lookin' good," she smiles, even more satisfied.

I was slightly offended at first; my demeanor softened considerably after she paid me this compliment.