"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.
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.