New York City, the magical land of rats, Roofies and ratchet. This past week I got to experience all that shit. Taking a trip to the Big Apple to check out Market Week, as well as harass everyone in the Complex offices, has been something I've been planning for a hot minute and I finally got the opportunity. Living in Iowa (yes, you pricks, I have to mention it every time so you can have some context for that bitch ass) the interaction with likewise individuals is minimal because their aren't many style-friendly people and the negroidal population is on the slim like a muh, so you know I was ready to relish every minute of my short ass excursion.

Seeing the latest hawt fashunz and actually being a physical part of the endless menswear circlejerk was a dream come true. And boy did I jerk it! Who wouldn't enjoy putting faces to email addresses and Twitter handles you interact with all the time because you have a common interest in expensive sneakers? But one thing you'll notice in the menswear world is that a lot of the personality you see on the computer screen doesn't match up to the limp-wristed, hunchbacked Quasimodo-looking motherfuckers you meet in real life. Before I go too hard in the paint on these boner patrollers, let me take you through the 48 hours of living the blackest I've ever had the chance to live.

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