Dipping into my pot of Jew gold.

Normally I wouldn't dare blog about my shopping adventures (which are only comparable to Frodo's quest to destroy the ring of power, except with more dire repercussions) but I did exceptionally well today, even by my own cheap and bitchy standards. While walking around Center City and Rittenhouse during my three hour break in between seven hours of class, I knew I had a purpose other than enjoying the tepid weather and putting modest mouse on repeat. I had to put up posters for my viral advertising final, while avoiding the police and other good samaritans. They would most likely fine me even though I am nothing but a lowly design student in road salt stained UGG's. After putting up a dozen or so and becoming bored, I decided it was time to save my sanity and popped into a thrift boutique on Walnut. After sifting through racks of trampy junior high track suits and camisoles that had probably seen the rise and fall of Kurt Cobain, I came across a wool tube dress with a drop waist and pleated hem. It didn't feel like any form of polyester or synthetic fibers of hellfire, so I checked the label and was pleased to see that it was J Crew. Better yet, it was my size, and had been marked down to eight bucks. I win.
After purchasing my reward for blowing off vandalizing one of the only nice parts of West Philadelphia, I decided to pop over to Chestnut to do some more damage. I also needed to find more home goods I could design/destroy for my restaurant identity final. Unfortunately there was nothing found among the racks of long stale cookies and distasteful oven mitts, so I decided to recuperate in Buffalo Exchange. I headed straight to the skirt section as I have been looking for the quintessential pencil skirt for months, if not for most of my life as a scholar and degenerate. I was told they had restocked, and I grabbed a BCBG and a Kenneth Cole number. Because I am not blessed with the long misunderstood trial of anorexia, the BCBG was a trifle too small. However, the Kenneth Cole fit well enough to go out with a slutty tank, but was still conservative enough to wear to work with a cardigan and slutty tank. The Best part was that it was marked $16, but I had ten bucks credit there for selling high school paraphernalia. All in all I would call it a successful trip, and by some form of slut or Jew magic I managed to vanquish the metaphorical demons of the retail industry. Then again they were probably made by five year olds for about a nickel, but we try not to think about that.