This is just a rant, made with soap, the color black and ripped tights
December 14, 2009 § 2 Comments
My tights are ripped. Not by Erin Wasson or other garage, urban, totally hip, ultra fashion, skinny bitch turned model turned designer turned entrepreneur [why, i am not bitter at all] but all are rather my own doing. Ripped tights happen people, and unlike the older ladies who get immediate shame and run into a sock shop to purchase another pair and run to the bathroom to exchange, I am loud and proud of them. I am constantly bending forwards and backwards to “exercise my legs” and keep my mind distracted, I wear intricate, loud jewelery with sharp edges and cannot keep them away from my body enough, and as a person who rarely wears pants and mostly supports other legwear, most of my clothing supports holes and other wounds. Living here, of course, this must be utterly shameful because I cannot even sell soap without having people gaping at my choices of outfits and talking to my face or to their friends of how my tights are ripped, tut fucking tut. If I was half as concerned about what YOU got on, lady, I would lose my head because that tight orange sweater with your mom jeans is really not a good look for you. But, youth, if you want to look marginal, odd, and receive pity from folks do rip your tights, in fact, follow Erin’s steps and take a fucking razor. Shred that shit. Add some fucking obscene silver jewelery that not even goths wear. Please paint your lips bright red and spend 30 minutes on your hair making it look like you spent nada. Bicycle boots are optional, anything with studs is necessary.
Speaking of razorblades, I was browsing through the LUSH’s British website [because I really cannot get enough of fucking soap] and watching ridiculous videos of people voice-over-ing to Christmas songs and playing with Strawberry Santas and it really made me want to slit my wrists. Because, really, no matter how fucking depressing, overrated and somewhat discriminating Christmas is, life without it is absolutely miserable. The best remedy I have come up with so far is finishing that bottle of wine with it’s cork floating inside, listening to online Christmas radios [If baby Jesus had the internet, he would be listening to 181.fm] and crying miserably. But crying is something I do on a regular basis [alone, mostly, so people around me don’t get THAT uncomfortable] so I suppose getting drunk to Christmas songs and passing out on my computer with a pile of rose colored drool, it is.
Now if only I had a social life.
add on: I thought and I thought and came to the conclusion that I don’t know the proper pronunciation of Wasson. In my head it sounds like croissant with a big fat french accent.