I went into Luna Park the other day to blow $15 dollars on pasta and figured, “Hey, while I'm here, I might as well splurge on a three dollar PBR.” Sure enough, my PBR came to me in a brown bag, neatly folded over to the correct height and diameter of the can. First I thought, “I'm not homeless.” Then I thought about how terrible for the environment it was. Then I laughed at how Luna Park was trying too hard to be cool in the eyes of 'fucking hipsters.' Then I realized I enjoyed the attention to detail, even if it was totally unnecessary. Christ, I never knew a fucking Pabst could make me experience a range of emotions. I'm going to go cry into my pillow and listen to Sunny Day Real Estate.