2010
It’s New Year in 2010. You wake up with whatever’s left of your hangover and the realization that you’ve somehow made it into the future. The year itself has mythology attached to it—terrible predictions, secret prophecies, all the usual garbage people attach to dates. You start asking the big stupid questions: what’ll happen? What’ll break? Who are you going to ruin?
Hannah, Caro, and I are finishing school this year. Come summer we’re done with our training and studies, and then we’re scattered again, heading out the way we always do. My plan is to freelance after the apprenticeship, finally move some money around. Hannah and Caro talk about fashion the way other people talk about religion—they’re going to sleep their way up design houses, run the industry, become competitors, legendary empires. They don’t actually know any of this. We’re all just lying to ourselves about having a plan.
Without a real plan, I make predictions instead. Pete Doherty dies on the Eiffel Tower. Lady Gaga is three Chihuahuas sewn together, using pop music to enslave humanity and usher in the age of dogs. Emma Watson films pornography. These aren’t guesses—they’re what you say when you’re standing at the edge and you need to say something, anything, instead of admitting you’re spinning.
I could tell you what this year will be like. Mixtapes. Interviews. Diary entries from redheads in Berlin. Weird photography. All the stuff that sounds good when you’re trying to convince yourself you know what you’re doing. But honestly I’m making it up the same way everyone is. It’s January 2010 and I have no idea what comes next, and that’s the only thing that feels true.