My Big Ass: Round Two

After hours of searching though obnoxious stores desperately trying to exude "cool" from every floorboard, I've found a new pair of jeans to replace the ones that met a tragic end.

What's with these stores anyway? What's with the faux-homosexual rail-skinny 20-something with a ridiculous near-Mohawk with the tips dyed bright pink working the dressing room? What's with the unrelentingly "ambient" music drooling out of the Gap's speaker system where every song drearily/moodily/catatonically repeats each line of its lyrics five times: "dancing to the light, dancing to the light, dancing to the light, dancing to the light, dancing to the light... dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, I'm dreaming..." Yech.

The girl that helped me at American Eagle was so ridiculously, earnestly eager to help me that I think she's contributing to the energy crisis. She could harness all that effort into curing cancer or creating cold fusion. Instead it's used to try to sell me $45 jeans. And I thought I was squandering my talents.

I left most of these stores feeling incredibly thankful that I am not possessed by such a pathetic, desperate need to exude cool. They may have jeans (and pink-dyed Mohawks), but the over-franchised emperor has no clothes.