Ghetto Sisters

Late Friday night or early Saturday morning—the timeline gets blurry at fast food places—I bought a mixtape from a group of girls hanging around McDonald’s. They had that ghetto-hipster thing going. The transaction was straightforward: a couple of greasy cheeseburgers and a large Coke with something poured into it. They handed me back a handwritten note decorated with hearts, dicks, and skulls, listing the favorite songs of Lauren, Nesrin, Daria, and this blonde girl who was fat and had neither style nor any voice to speak of. That was the whole deal. That was the mixtape.