Here I am, back again, just as promised, to tell you all about my day.
Today was a big day. Because today I woke up and said, “I’m going to write.” See, ever since I finished my critically-acclaimed (by my parents) creative writing senior thesis, I’ve pretty much been telling people I’m a writer. Why, just last night, I met some Germans at a bar who worked in advertising, and when they asked for my email to talk about doing some freelance work, I wrote under my address, “Writer with Boobs.”
“Um, is that really how you brand yourself?” one asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It fucking is.”
But I digress. So like today was a hard day’s work of penning perhaps this decade’s most significant street style story, and then writing a few pages of my memoir, On the Rag: One Gal’s Journey of Painting the Town Red. And afterwards, I put on my fancies and the roommate and I went for a walk in the park.
Then I sat for a sec.
Sunglasses by Thierry Lasry. I don’t read like, books, but if I did, I’d read Lipstick Traces. You can just pick out phrases and be brilliant at cocktail parties. “Oh, so weird you should mention that your veterinarian is Romanian,” you could say, “because I was just studying the work of mid-20th century thinker Isidore Isou, who is also Romanian. It sounds like your last experience taking little Fluffy to the doctor was surreal—which is funny, because I would argue that Isou is the father of the surrealist movement.”
After that, I showed up for a meet ‘n greet/receipt signing. Everyone wasn’t there.
Then I thought, to honor my WASP upbringing, I should do a little community service.
Big watch is vintage via Mommy. Little watch is Marc by Marc by Marc by Marc by Marc Jacobs, which is his newest, most low-priced line, designed by a small coterie of rats who are all taking night classes at FIT.
And then I headed back home, but not before pausing for a little reflection that would highlight my rad Tarina Tarantino skull earrings.
Til tomorrow, lovebirds.