Peep the rumpled linen, dawgs. I don't know about you, but I just feel like creased and worn linen lends my overall aesthetic a particular type of world weariness. Like, I'm not annoyed that the barista asks me what particular blend or roast I want for my iced coffee, it's just that reading the names of places coffee comes from—Kilimanjaro or Nepalese or whatever—bums me out because it reminds me of all the adventures I went on before settling down to read the Internet in a coffee shop. That's why when I smoke cigarettes on benches in front of boutiques that I've never purchased anything from, I get that faraway look in my eyes that Taylor Swift always writes choruses about.
