A WD-40 cologne. Nike Air Max sneakers filled with blood. A Fruit Loop as big as your head. Everywhere I turn in this garage that’s been half converted into an office, I see objects that look like they belong in a Hot Topic managed by a MoMA curator on acid. I’m perched on one of three couches, which appear to have been rescued from the curb to form a conversation pit. Around me are piles of stickers, gallons of chemicals, a power sander, and a shop vac. To my left, a few glass...
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