It’s pitch day at the ad agency. For a tire company. I wear the brand colors, and represent. Word up. vintage Liz Claiborne black & rose print silk jacket,  $11.99 at 20% off, Lux Fashion Lounge | tagless black sheen tank, $1.99, ReStyle thrift store | Vivienne Westwood red skirt, $20, Lux Fashion Lounge | Steve Madden red leather kitten heels, $7, ReStyle thrift store Cheep!

I realize I’m such a privileged white lady asshole, co-opting first a veteran’s rallying cry and then a Beyonce anthem about slavery and its consequences to talk about fashion, and like, my career and stuff. But ever since I decided to get a real job, right after I got my $8,000 self-employed tax bill, I’ve had that song stuck in my head… “Freedom! Freedom! I can’t move. Freedom, cut me loose. Singing freedom! Freedom! Where are you? Cause I need freedom too. I break chains all by myself. Won’t let my freedom rot in hell. I’ma keep running cause a winner don’t quit on themselves.” A real job. Talk about sweet, sweet lemonade after lemons upon lemons for years upon years. People talk about freedom. But freedom isn’t free. You have to fight for it every single fucking day. And that version of freedom became a tiny little island of hell, for me alone, because I was always afraid and overwhelmed. And always somehow failing in some baffling business-y way. And surviving by the skin of my teeth. I …