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Slutever

My next crap job was working behind the bar at an English pub. They don’t tip in England, so bartenders just get paid an hourly fee. I made £5 an hour, which I’m almost positive is below minimum wage.

I immediately went home and manically threw out all of the trashiest clothes in my closet. This included all of my see-through tops (i.e. 50% of my wardrobe) and things like plastic stripper heels and the $19 mini-dresses made of neon pink mock-lace that I wore almost every day this past summer.

The threesome was a going away present for my boyfriend who just a few days ago moved away to Boston for the entire summer to study some complicated science stuff at Harvard. (Apparently Harvard is “in” right now.) So now I’m sad and alone at my apartment staring at my air-conditioner, feeling depressed about the fact that I’ve literally already watched every (good) porn movie on the internet multiple times over.

Sometimes it’s OK to go on a six month downward spiral, as you long as you’re chic about it. Basically, there’s a right way and a wrong way to be a disaster. Like, you can’t just show up to your abortion wearing sweat pants. What if you ran into a street style photographer on the way there?

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