I’m addicted to VBS.TV.
Believe it or not, I used to hate Vice magazine. Oxymoronically, the only place I knew to pick it up was from the Vespa dealership in The Beach (AKA – East end of Toronto). “Hipsters can barely afford to drive the fixed speed bikes they’ve got in the first place. What the fck do they want with a Vespa?” I used to think each time my ex-boyfriend, then a culinary arts student at George Brown, would insist on picking up the mag. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last when he could remember Vice’s publishing schedule but had problems remembering if he was going to a BBQ or breaking up with me.
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