Wassup? I’m leaning against the gas pump in my scratchy velour tracksuit, watching the numbers climb to a brutal $1.51 while Janet Jackson’s voice crackles through the radio. The grip of my new Razor scooter feels cold and metallic against my palm, a sleek contrast to the humid August air as I wait for my ride.
I adjust my trucker hat and check my Nokia, scrolling through pixelated messages while the sun glints off the hood of the car. It’s too hot for this much velvet, but the scene is everything.
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