So here he comes: all 6-feet-0, 33 years of him, dressed in a lavish semaphore of painfully scarce Off White. He is turning the corner—both literally, nearing West Street, or Brewer Street, or Oranienstraße—and also metaphorically, because this will be his most grailed and consequential drop yet. Today, it’s Corteiz.
But last month, last year, last decade: Wales Bonner, Cactus Jack’s, Salehe x Bembury Moncler. Advertisement As he makes his way, he is thinking of his crimes, though that’s not how he sees them. He is thinking of the time his bots copped first season Yeezys and how he flipped them for thousands; about how he tricked a 13-year-old petroleum scion into believing his cast-off Skechers were a highly divestable investment.
The time he made a poor woman crawl around his apartment in Flatbush—or De Beauvoir, or Neukölln—wearing nothing except Tabis on her hands. “D’ya like jazz?” he screamed then, as he pumped her full of orange wine and the city’s nightly sirens bled in through a jammed open window. None of that matters now.
Today’s drop is set to be the most fire yet, and will earn him enough to finally get ahead. They called him a Hypebeast. They called him a fashion victim.
But truly he is The New Streetwear Psycho , and he is no longer in control. Life Introducing: The Polyamorous Fuckboy Dani Ran 11.23.
22 Now he is thinking of the dropshipping venture that went to shit (“13,000 fidget spinners stuck in a fucking warehouse in Denpasar!.
