I hate fitting rooms. It’s not really the happiest of experiences when you try to put on the, um, “hippest” clothes, only to find out in dismay that the clothes look horrible on you. And you’d have somebody waiting outside the dressing room, waiting for you to show them how you look.

You cower in one corner, begging to not show them how you look like. Then you’d get a stern voice coming from outside the dressing room, saying “Gerard Adrian, if you don’t come out here this very moment, I’ll leave you alone in the dressing room. And have that serpent-man who lives in the bowels of the mall come up there and eat you. And I’ll throw in a tear gas grenade in there as well. Just get the fuck out!”

A few tearful tantrum-filled minutes later, you would hesitantly open the dressing room door, in the shittiest clothes ever, and you’d find about twenty people (mostly women) staring at you and stifling their laughter because you’re dressed like a Mexican.

Yeah, I have like the shittiest childhood ever. Fuck you.
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