Now, I love H&M, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Those who know me know I'm no clothes horse. If I look good when I go out of the house, it's purely by happenstance or accident or, perhaps, because of H&M. I love that I can just go in there, find a piece of clothing I like (like the stretchy cotton collared short-sleeve tops!), and then just buy it in five different colors, and BAM, I'm all set for however long it takes me to wear them the fuck out.
But, H&M, there are limits to my enthusiasm. Let's be clear: yes, I do visit your 5th Avenue store (at 18th) regularly whenever I'm in the mood for some stretchy cotton, but the thing is--and I think most human folk will agree with me--standing in a line this long to buy f-ing clothes is not something I wish to do. It's just not. I'll wait in a line this long to see Dolly Parton. Or to get some good gumbo. Or to watch Michael Fassbender eat a corn dog. But, H&M, I will not wait in a line this long to buy your stupid clothes, as much as I want them clinging to my body.
I stopped by yesterday to pick up a few things because I need to replenish my warm-weather wardrobe. As usual, I had to bite my tongue and deal with having to wait in your stupid long line, which stretched all the way across the entire f**king store, well into women's wear, and nearly to the door. Above is a photo of how close I was to the register. Below is a picture of how close I was to the exit. Is this acceptable? No it is not. I don't care how delightfully and efforttlessly bitchy your cashiers are, I'll take my business elsewhere because this is New York City and this town is fully of bitchy cashiers ready willing and able to get me out of their damn store as quickly as possible because fuck me, right?
Get your shit together, H&M, Jesus.
