The bass from Montell Jordan’s "This Is How We Do It" is rattling my neighbor’s windows again, but all I can hear is the frantic news anchor talking about those twelve angry Simpson jurors. I just paid over a dollar a gallon for gas just to get to the store, and now my kid is begging for more expensive Pogs like a cardboard circle is worth more than the seventy-nine cent bread in my cart.
It’s totally lame how the tension in the air feels as thick as these plaid flannel shirts everyone is wearing. Between the trial rumors and the noise of this city, I feel like I'm vibrating right out of my preppy knee-high socks.
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