Cash is dirty. It’s quite often old. It rips. It’s bulky. It features the faces of white, slave-owning men. And yet
In high school, me and my 10 closest friends used to pile into Civics, Corollas and Mustangs and chug 40 minutes to fast casual restaurants on Saturday nights. Sitting around sticky tables and binging on unlimited bread sticks, we gossiped, made fun of each other and ordered meals we believed were fancy, miming suburban adulthood.
When the check arrived, we turned into teenagers again. The cash would come out. Negotiations began.
