We’re Not Your Therapist or Your Mama

Additional reporting by Karen Bookatz

Although we heard a lot of kvetching at Pitchfork, we didn’t make a nickel (let alone a dime), but we did gather some gems.

“I really want to be a photographer, but I need to buy this special camera first. No, I don’t have a card—but you can check out my Blogspot.”

Sure thing. Hit me up on Friendster and we’ll talk.

"I don’t mean to talk shit, but I blame Heeb editor [blank] for taking my job at the NYU paper and thus ruining my writing career forever."

Um, but you are talking mad shit.

"All my friends left me. And it’s raining. And I’m woozy from drinking Sparks. Mind if I hang out under your tent for awhile?" (Awhile=45 minutes.)

No, not at all (eye roll).

What do you think?

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2 Responses

  1. apieceofthemiddleeast

    this article sucks and is about nothing other than the writer trying to be cool


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