He who shits out magic may shine!

For the good of customs and callings!

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How is your morning going lovelies? Your dear author is sitting in a Starbucks in Signal Hill, absolutely surrounded by mouth breathing yuppies, suits, dinks and soccer moms (fresh from dropping the kids off at the pool). I read the Globe and Mail (hmm… North Korea is fucking with the world again. Nice!). I have the paper, sitting on the chair beside me, and I am waiting for someone to ask me if I am done with it. I can see them eyeing it (the ones who aren’t getting their $15 dollar coffee-drinks to go, that is), and then sitting down in defeat. It sounds like they are playing the worst music you could imagine – think Antony singing for a world-beat Brazilian combo.

I sit in quiet judgement, Bourdieu echoing in my head, and I think to myself: I never want to end up like this.

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