fuckyeahmenswear:

The ballad of solo steez.

A G’d up Lucifer.

Banished from Heaven for stunting on Yahweh.

Exiled from the blogosphere.

Brought before the inquisition.

My charge?

It’s blasphemous how on point my shit is.

Deuces to the LES.

Trading open bars for open skies.

One last round of LOLZ and Mexican Cokes with the squad?

Nah.

No goodbyes this times.

Peaced out quicker than Draper with a jumpoff.

I’ll confess.

Asked my barber to come with.

Dude’s post-modern Civil War reconstruction carpetbagger swag is still an inspiration.

Hot shave appointments booked for a month straight, he had to pass.

So I’m on that solitary hustle.

That lonesome grind.

Getting my Treadwell on.

Twitpic’n savage ass grizzly bears to no followers.

Living out of a rust rucksack.

And a ollie drab parka.

Prolly start a Lookbook.nu for my shadow.

My silhouettes lookin’ all fucking tasty.

That interweb hustle never truly dies.

Not with 4G, son.

Rat race for the unemployed.

The 9-5 of independent editors.

The endless pursuits of freelance photogs.

And Google curators.

We off that.

This is the ballad of solo steez.

I am just a man.

Hiking somewhere outside of Hither Hills.

Searching for zen.

Thought I found it in a Cabourn jawn.

But then I peeped the pricepoint.