it is becoming patently clear that i must quit my job and/or throw away my credit card. working in retail has been a bit of a lark for me. i fold lots of sweaters and pretend to be helpful and attempt to hide my j-face. in return, i get a giant discount and am currently in the process of transitioning from hobo chic to preppy hobo chic. now it's no secret that i'm the marketer's dream subject. my store's particularly good at selling this image--clean, wholesome, summers spent sailing up and down the eastern seaboard. suddenly madras bermuda shorts are looking really good. they would be perfect for that lobster bake you know? i also need cashmere sweaters. in every color. swimsuits with matching flip flops of course for when i summer in the hamptons or some other bourgeois watering hole in a house from a potterybarn/william sonoma catalogue. throw up everywhere. that said, i just had to buy that dress. it was 60% off, it would've been criminal not to. sigh.
odds and ends: i ordered a pizza for dinner tonight. a barbeque chicken pizza. i go and pick it up, pay for it, and as they hand it to me, they tell me, "oh, we ran out of chicken tonight so there's no chicken on the pizza. is that okay?" umm, no. not okay. i'm left with a barbeque sauce and cheese pizza. in the words of the inimitable miss dolan, sick.
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