A Day In The Life Of A Freelance Menswear Writer

Wife wakes me up to get my day started. Little backstory here: my wife makes more money than I do. I am proud of her for holding down the fort as I play "menswear swords" with the rest of you fucking nerds, but the young lord wants to be da breadwinna. So, naturally, I literally "rise and grind" by coming up with swoon-worthy scriptures for the sartorially initiated. In order to simmer down the humiliation I feel every time I look into her beautiful blueish green eyes, I tell her to get me some fucking juice, but like, in a really low, inaudible voice so she can't actually hear me.

I go downstairs to get my own goddamn juice.

I turn the idea factory on. Oh, by the way, I'm calling my brain "the idea factory" now—deal with it. One of the hardest parts of being a writer, in general, is generating ideas you nincompoops wouldn't mind reading and sharing. Lemme break this shit down right quick, I literally have to think up shit from my own brain that will translate successfully to your brain. Complete opposite brains, working together to formulate the same conclusion. MIND EXPLOSION. That shit's skressful. In order to come up with these brilliant ideas for y'all to fester in, research is key. I start my daily search on my favorite porn sites.

DAMN, that was a rigorous research session. Time to get ready for work. Oh, I forgot to tell y'all that I have a real job too. Yea, like one that pays me a salary. (I know right? I'm sheisty.) It's one of those joints that has nothing to do with clothing except that I unfortunately have to wear them every single day. And, what do you know, I'm the only black person up in that bitch. I seriously live this token black guy shit. I bottle the ignorance up then come home to take it out on the Internet and my wife. My poor, white wife.

I get to my "job" to hit up my favorite secondary sites for research session #2 in the company bathroom. My list of ideas is due in a few hours and, per usual, I ain't got shit. I generally have to come up with 5-7 ideas that I would feel safe sending to editors without getting ridiculed and laughed at behind my back aka directly to my face via email. I'm convinced these motherfuckers at Complex are constantly laughing at my expense. I take the next 3 hours to make one of those videos where I confess how much emotional angst I'm in by only using flash cards and playing Owl City bangers in the background. That'll show 'em.

Shit ain't looking too copasetic right now. I've brought out the Urban Dictionary to at least try and come up with some funny, grotesque terms like "grundle" or "Shitler mustache" that some of you goobers will undoubtedly tweet at me for the next three weeks thinking you're funny. I've contacted every damn editor I can, asking if they have some work for me, only to be avoided like I'm a light-skinned leper. I've searched for, and located, every fucking item of clothing Kanye West has worn for the past 8 years for creative inspiration. P.S. that motherfucker wore a plush feathery mask from the Maison Martin Margiela Owls of Ga'hoole Collection the other night, B. What kind of Brothers Grimm fairy tale type of lifestyles are we living in where we aren't actively discussing this shit right this moment? Bruh bruh looked like he just got dropped off from an overnight sleepover in Narnia. Dealing is not an option at this point.

11th hour. Fuck it. Here's how it's going down: 1. Look up the most recent shit Jian Deleon has written 2. Piggyback ideas off of them 3. ??? 4. Profit! Let's eat, bitches. Who's tryna roll to Little Caesars on me?

Haven't gotten any feedback on any of my ideas yet and the young Yahweh is trying to get the "yawp" so I can make that guap. While being able to talk the latest fashionz with your "interweb friends" who are actually dudes you've never met, the real end game is being able to accumulate enough scrillz to copalop some new jawnery.

Bored as fuck. Why haven't I heard anything back? Am I going to have to do some "real work" right now? Did my ideas suck that bad? Did someone else present the same shit, but in a better way? Do I need to resend my ideas? DO I NEED TO OFFER UP SOME HANDIES?! This is usually the precise moment I begin questioning my aptitude, or lack thereof, and this is probably the only normal thing about being a writer. Your work always sucks. It's never as good as the next dudes. His vocabulary and knowledge are unlimited. He's figured out his lane in the game. I bet that dude gets mad puss. Like, crazy prissy PR girl 'nani. The crazy thing is, they are thinking the same thing about you. OK, maybe not about YOU, but ME because I'm awesome. It's imperative to keep that hunger to improve your writing because you may not think you stack up to the rest of them bumbaclots. That's how you thrive and it keeps you humble. Unfortunately I cannot take my own advice because I lack the moral compass that directs me to humility.

My menswear prayers are answered! Two of my ideas just got picked up AKA I can finally take those Yuketens off layaway. AHHH, FUCK THE REST OF YOU LOSERS. I'M GETTING PAID, HOE (in a month's time). Ignore everything I just told you about improving and thriving and all that bullshit because I'm getting that new new and you ain't.

While it may seem like the hard part is over, it isn't. Now I actually have to write. And I have to write well if I want to extend my freelance gig past this one measly byline. I tell my boo to fuck off for a little while I furiously pound on them keys and stare off into the blinding light of my Macbook. And before I know it I'm on research session #3.