No, seriously —my first thought was “How many interviews before they figured this shit out?” And then “How fucking silly did his story get before someone was like ‘Waaaait ... your dentist’s name is Crentist’?”

YAYA FROM THESE CLOWNIMALZ.

My friends, I had the displeasure of seeing my least favorite white coworker sing “Formation” at karaoke and if healthcare weren’t so important I would have yanked the mic and her beer and hexed her then and there.

I went to Berkeley for grad school and taught there and yeah ... It’s like, I knew we weren’t in full force, but people came out for each other and community was felt. Somehow?

I mean ...

Agreed.

White man is like “NO, MY DUDE.” Suit suddenly feeling two sizes too small, lights suddenly feeling eeeeextra HOT.

My Dad says this (we’re black) when accusing someone of having lost their “natural mind” and/or of putting their “narrow behinds” simply won’t do.

“Why you gotta bring up old shit?!!!”

I, too, am raising my hand to let Odell know that I am here for him.

I mean ... talk about being “devoid of the basics needed to succeed.”

No, dude, they’re taking the stairs down. She’s about to step off the edge and doesn’t even know it, poor thing.

It’s not so much the “designer” part that feels a bit insulting, it’s what’s implied by the misidentification. Replace it with “novelist”, “principal dancer”, “Tony-winner” or whatever and it’s still like ... That’s not really what she does? And we should know that?

I’d warn you against reading his latest profile in the New Yorker. He seems ... pretty insufferable? That said, I was like “Ha, this dude sounds like me!”

I think it’s mainly a matter of aesthetic context, signaling and what I dramatically call “stylistic comorbidities” (e.g. if one wearable becomes particularly gauche or out, it can ‘ruin’ things once associated with it).

I have styled my dreads into what was basically a banana clip look while telling myself I was inspired by a Roman helmet. Ooo lies!

I’ve seen banana clips on two different women in 2018—one in Brooklyn, one in SoCal.

Okay, that first one is my new go-to phrase if and when I see someone fine, get a seat on the subway, am served a big plate of food or finally receive my dark-liquor cocktail after a whole show by a bartender wearing arm garters in 2018.

LET HIM KNOW.

“Lord, My Ex Changed His Netflix Password Now What We Gon’ Do?”