Cash is dirty. It’s quite often old. It rips. It’s bulky. It features the faces of white, slave-owning men. And yet
In high school, my 10 closest friends and I used to pile into Civics, Corollas and Mustangs and chug 40 minutes to fast-casual restaurants on Saturday nights. Sitting around sticky tables and binging on unlimited bread sticks, we gossiped, made fun of each other and ordered meals we believed were fancy, miming suburban adulthood.
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