Rorschach Jacket.

George Brown uniforms are fucking expensive. I know first hand that purchasing a Chef's Jacket is an awful experience. Not only do you have to try them on in the midst of millions of other insecure college students, you also have to wait in an enormous lineup that seems to stretch the earth fifteen times over.

I bought two jackets so that I wouldn't have to return to the George Brown bookstore EVER. They were perfectly wonderful. I made the appropriate adjustments (I have a gigantic chest, get off me), gave them a good wash so they wouldn't be so awful and stiff and was just getting used to looking like a mammoth, fucking tool when an evil machine murdered them.

BOTH JACKETS.

Both, sixty dollar, perfectly altered and unstiffened jackets were rittled with black ink blotches. Some knob thought it a fun idea to leave two uni ball pens in the bottom of the dryer that I just so happened to pick whilst doing laundry today. I didn't see them, but my jackets did because they now resemble a watercolour grey scale.

FUCKER.

They're sitting downstairs on the kitchen table, dripping in bleach and other stain removing liquids in a very pathetic attempt to save their very short, but very demanding existences. Poor jackets.

I wouldn't normally fret over such a predicament. Sure, I'm going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe for my school year that cost me little over 300 dollars (all of my aprons and dish towels were also lost in this catastrophe), but whatever! OSAP will come soon enough.
What's pissing me off is that I agreed to work at the Toronto Film Festival tomorrow for an Executive Chef of a very high standing (He works for a group called Liberal, I think? Anyway, he's associated with the Phoenix and the C Club, which are crazy-mad popular, bars here), and OBVIOUSLY, I cannot show up in an ink-blot-test of a uniform. I want a reference god dammit!

So tomorrow morning I must ride the rocket to the George Brown bookstore so I can purchase a brandspanking new jacket. Thils will grant me the ability to play the part of a professional and cunning pastry chef so Brad Pitt can hire me on as his personal baker, therefore giving me the justified allowance to do whatever the fuck I want for the rest of my life because hey, I'm at least 55% more famous than you ever will be.

Fucking knob.