Of course I look serious - look where I am: stench alley! Would you look all comfy-cozy, ooo, why-don't-you-come-for-tea, if you were in stench alley? I think not. On top of that, I had to keep one eye on my stuff (five bars of nutritious soap made from goat dairy and grains, and new socks), one eye on traffic (although my shirt was a good substitute cone), and my third eye of loving-goodness-toward-the-universe focused serenely above this quagmire of shite (in all fairness, the alley was relatively clean).
Clearly, my style palate has been cleansed by my previous bout of minimalism. I embraced this assemblage of vitamin D whose yang-y bursts of colour found syncopated harmony in the alley's yin-y concrete squalor. This precision silhouette stance shows you the, uh, silhouette.
I fired the photographer, the traffic coning specialist*, the stylist, the garbage wrangler, and the location scout. I kept the gaffer - I'm really good at gaffes. *that's a real movie biz job, union wages
What on earth am I wearing?
- flagrantly floral thrifted Versace pants
- platform runners on super discount from Topshop (they don't offer so many huge discounts at my local store anymore; yup, they suck you in and then leave you high and dry, high and dry, my friends)
- ruffled twisted citrus thrifted satiny blouse
- magic loupe
- thrifted shaggy green coat
- my serious shady-day cycling sunglasses no longer used for cycling
The sun was like thin gruel off and on today, weak, beige, runny, lacking in nutrients, "Please, sir, can I have some more?" He said, "Eat your soap." Freak.
