It’s Fashion Week here in New York and I have the privilege of walking by the tents in Bryant Park on my way to the office. I tried to get in but they were like, chick – this invitation is from two years ago. You can’t come in. And I’m like, fuck you. Just because I sold my soul to the spreadsheet devil doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to be here. Please? And then they treated me like a boy would – looked the other way and made believe I wasn’t there.
So instead of being important and going to the tents, I strutted my ass to work. To the above song. Unfortunately it will be another seven hours before I get to do my little end-of-runway twirl and head back to the hole I came from.