STYLE + RUNWAY

Forgive, but Never Forget

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It only took a considerable amount of time to realize that I've wasted a whole lot of months trying to conjure up just something. I wasn't too emphatic on what to post, and so, it's been a quite while (won't be discreet about it, either). I've compiled both tentative photos and short essays here and there, but nothing perservered. A shame, isn't it? Writer's block for two whole months is quintessentially sucky. Of course, you may question what I've been doing during such a debacle - well, I've been reading all kinds of emblematic novels, and have confused my own life with Hadley Richardon's (Ernest Hemingway's first wife in the novel, The Paris Wife). Hadley's life was full of intrigue, as she was married to one of the most uncanny, brilliant writers. But her world wasn't as utopic as one would think. If you must know (and I'll proceed as if you have an ounce of care), Ernest ended up cheating on Hadley with some Parisian chick. As you can fathom, I was devestated. I spent two whole months feeling a sense of disdain towards Ernest. He suddenly wasn't so revered in my eyes. No, no. He is one heck of a writer, though, which is simply irrefutable. 

So, there you have it. I've been reading, reading, reading, and have also been relishing food. What's it to ya, huh? I guess this is my tawdry apology. I don't know. I just really like you, and I don't want you to repress me, ever. You're great, I'm great, and we make impeccable magic. Don't shy away from me, now. Blatantly, I am sad (as flawlessly exemplified in my almost obscure expression). But I am eluding to you abandoning me. You get it? You just can't leave me, you can't. In any event, I have the tendency to flagrantly ramble. It's a sickness, really, as I can't control my ability to speak of nonsense at my prime. I presume that's what happens when your fingers don't touch a keyboard for an exceptionally long period of time. Whoa, baby. 

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The only thing that has been making me feel a euphoric sense of contentment is this Urban Outfitters hatThe shallowness in enabling a particular garment to satisfy me is just disappointing, although I am being definitively candid. Oh, yeah; oh yeah. Another thing I have to say about this outfit is that I've been shamelessly wearing these Zara boots everyday now. They perfectly emulate Rag And Bone boots, or even Theory boots, and that only makes me the happiest camper of them all. 

One more thing I'd like to point out: Poignancy is entirely asinine. Although I sort of (and I say, sort of) regret not writing for a whole century, I refuse to evoke vulnerability. If anything, my rambling, as I will now try to fit noteworthy words into each post, will only do you good. I'll let you in on all the things that I've been exposed to (well sort of, because I can't really remember much, but whatever). The p-p-point is, that I love you, and if you will respectfully love me back, that would be the most awesome. Also, because you are always on my mind, please dress appropriately in this weather. In other words, turtlenecks are cool and completely chic. Don't let anybody whip out scissors and effectively convince you to cut the neck part off. 

I will be back. I will..be back.

Plaid and Sequin, Sequin and Leather

  "Your lips look awkward. Wait, now your hair is all messed up. Ah, you're shirt is disgruntled". Erica, fortunately, and I do emphasize the fortunately, reminded me of how unnerving it can be for a not so innovative being to do all sorts of unpleasant poses in the midst of utmost chaos. It got fairly uncomfortable when approximately five people would pass by each minute, and would look over at me with a presumable question on their mind, "Who does that girl think she is?", followed by a "freak". Gosh, the awkwardness. I did my best to look all composed and poised; but the truth is, I have absolutely no idea what I am doing half the time. The uneasiness can go from wondering where I should place my hands, to how closely I should put my feet together. A spark is all I ask for. Perhaps, Erica could work her magic, which she undoubtedly and relentlessly does, as she gets on the bristly (and filthy) floor with tired legs, and then I wouldn't really have to try so hard (the photos can do some magic on their own as the force of Erica elicits them). Magic? Magic, I tell ya. 

In any event, as I went through my mother's closet for the tenth time one day, as I found myself inescapably returning to the depths of timeless shoes and fur coats, I discovered an old sequin pair of Manolo Blahniks . I instantly became cognizant of the fact that I was in my own little rendition of the Sex and the City movie; that memorable scene when Carrie inevitably goes back to her own Manolo Blahniks, while Mister Big, the once Douche, McDouchebag, finally decides to take marriage seriously, gets down on one knee, and does a 'Cinderella' proposal. The only thing that made his proposal promising and not as lame was the Blahniks, as they were outrageously beautiful and were a very distinct cobalt blue. Eh, I'm just kidding  you; I'm not that superficial - give me one of those 99 cent rings you find in those cute little ring machines at the movie theatre, and I'm golden. No, really, I still have a collection. 

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 Okay, watch me move my hips side to side. Now, watch me do my salsa walsa. Now watch me move my hips side to side, once again. Watch me move in a unique manner one more time. What are you thinking? Let me answer that: you're probably thinking, "Wow, she's so incredulously talented! Can she do that in her sleep? " I mean, watch the way I move - it's like I'm on cloud nine and it's so great. Never mind the fact that in the second photo, I shamelessly chose to stand in the middle of the street, while cars honked at me, left and right, right and left. It became exhausting, yet equally liberating. I was like, "Oh yeah, oh yeah, let me keep moving. Uh-huh, that's right". I'm movin', what's it to ya?  But there's a fine line between doing something for the greatness of the results, and doing something at the expense of your own life. But here's the thing, I do it all for you. A viber can formulate a very consequential question: Why in the world is this impressionable idiot standing in the middle of the street at the very expense of her own life? If you haven't thought of the answer, then it goes to show how little you value our particularly special friendship (or what have you). But that's okay, because I always have room to welcome a returning friend, or let in another condescending idiot with open arms. A relationship stemmed from a foundation of stupidity is irrefutably everlasting, I say. Case in point: When we were sane, we weren't the same.

And now, the outfit: I am wearing my father's Brooks Brothers sweater (in fact, I encourage you to steal something from a man's closet, as it will only do you good and will somehow make you feel like you're on top of the world), Zara pants and jacket (plaid and leather, leather and plaid), a BCBG Max Azria belt (it makes anything look weirdly chic), and finally, Manolo Blahnik heels (they'll never abandon me). 

Photos via Erica Cohenmehr.