Will Berry
Sweatpants and Pea Coat Like a Rich Mothafucka That single line ran through my head as I donned said clothing. I had caught my body shivering at a toilet bowl no more than twenty minutes earlier. That gave me about three hours and forty minutes until I could begin to hydrate without upsetting my intestines. The clothes were warm, but I was cold, but it was hot. Early summer-what some would call spring if all the blossoms hadn’t died in the mid-April frost. All my summer clothes, neon shorts and such, were in the wash awaiting laundry soap. 7AM Sunday morning. All the stores were closed. Why was I even up? I got no sleep, yet deep sleep, after creeping in at 3:30, and letting her creep out at 4:30-Shit. There was a her-The CVS at the corner would open in 42 minutes. So I wandered in the meantime, pondering verses: Catch me striding, my swag as smooth as my Lambo riding I liked rap. Can’t you tell? Any beat that made it to the top 40 was soon in my iPod. Exclusive. There was no other philosophy more prevalent in prep school: elitism, material status symbols, drugs, sex, authoritative figures always at your tail. Everything a preppy boy needs to feel like he’s a man in the real world. Perhaps I’m too cynical. In those halcyon years, I reveled in these mainstream jams, but I always recited verses of my favorite artist: 21