A Little Humor
I offered my landlord one of my limbs this month instead of paying rent. It’s Tuesday now, I still have my left leg, but my bank account is suffering a tad as I do live alone in Chelsea. This month has been a month of realizations. I believe this started on New Year’s Eve. I was with a fellow fashion friend in the East Village, wearing a vintage chinchilla fur, a silver Dolce & Gabanna slip, not slip-dress, slip, and platform red polka dot Miu Miu pumps. My friend asked if I got dressed channeling Kate Moss, but what she really meant, and we both knew, was that I was barely clothed and looked like a baby prostitute. As we sipped our Manhattans, a random man passed by exuberantly and held his glass to mine provoking cheers! As our glasses clinked I whispered in her ear, “ I have no fu@*ing clue that that was.” The night progressed, and so did this bizarre phenomenon of people coming up and pretending like we knew each other. It was then I had my first realization. I’m a girl that likes to wear a slip, not a dress. I like decadent furniture, and wallpaper with Kate Moss’s tits on it in my dining room. I like dead animal skulls; I display animal skulls on my mantel, just cause! Crystals, tulle, and glitter are almost orgasmic words, not to mention a probably unhealthy obsession with anything shiny or that reads; shoe department. It was in this moment, she and I both realized, that fantasy life is real, for someone, and I was already half way there with my clan of fake glass clinking friends, my Pretty Woman outfit, and a beautiful man by my side. It’s attainable.
Fast-forwarding to the next day.
My silver slip dangled on a dining room chair, streaks of red wine splattered down the back and my crystal earrings hung precariously out of my platinum Wang clutch somewhere on the counter. My boyfriend and houseguest were discussing how just because I enjoy a nice bottle of wine, alone, from time to time, does not mean I’m an alcoholic. He was convinced that my bi-weekly solo drinking dance parties were a cry for help. In reality, I have more fun dancing at home to the Ciara he won’t blast in the clubs as a DJ. Regardless, as I laid incapacitated and hung over on New Year’s Day, my fabulous fantasies of hosting candlelit dinner parties, in an eccentrically decorated dream pad seemed lives away. All of the previous night’s realizations were now scattered memories between catnaps and whole roasted chicken snacks in bed.It took about a week for my brain to fully recover, so I made it a habit to just text pictures to people instead of words.
The first text was this picture of the new men’s wear McQueen to my friend. The conversation went a little something like this:
