Khaki is Whacki

Today is the most miserable type of Washington days. The sun is shining, birds are singing, tourists running around with their Kodak EasyShare cameras, and humidity that won't let anyone enjoy it. Humidity. More than moisture in the air. The type of humidity that as soon as you walk outside of your air conditioned residence, you feel as if someone has smothered you with a pillow and thrown warm stale bath water all over you. It is my third summer here in the District. And while there is nothing as good as summer in the city, days like this just make you want to lock yourself inside with a XXL Slurpee from 7-11 and wake up when the brutality is over. 

In attempts to escape the confines of my lovely little house, I (of course) have been indulging in too many cigarettes on the front stoop. There isn't much to do out here. I face a concrete building and a somewhat busy road. After a while all the cars begin to look the same. The only thing to hold my interest is the people walking past me. And let me tell you. Today, I have witnessed the most heinous of crimes. 

Men of the world. Listen to me. If you dress like this:

 

YOU BORE ME. For the love of God. How many people a day do I see walking by wearing gray shirts and khaki pants/shorts. This must stop. Why are we all so afraid to express ourselves?! I don't care if you look "clean cut" or put together. Have fun with yourself (and not just while viewing xtube.com). It's summer. You're alive. Show me.