Black Glasses and Yellow Pants

Half of Berlin’s walking around like this and I still don’t know where to start. The pants, the earrings, the knit stuff, the hats, the chains—even some blue bag somehow got in on it. Why? I have no clue.

Last week I said something about hoodies and Kelly took it as a green light for spring. She found something that actually lets you breathe. Smart move.

Pregnant women don’t have to look like shit for nine months. Dark jewelry with a white top actually works. It’s subtle, restrained, good. Shame I’m not the father.

We’ve all wondered. Love or sex? In bright yellow? Pink pants trying to tell a different story. But we know better. Love or sex? Love? Or sex? What is it actually?

You’re fat, you’re hairy, you’re old. Grab a ratty Coke t-shirt and throw it on your belly and watch the magic happen. That’s the move.

Are black horn-rimmed glasses still in style? I’m calling my eye doctor tomorrow. I can’t watch this anymore. Wear those for two years and you turn into Satoshi—missing an eye. Get rid of them or find an alternative.

I have no idea what Vashtie actually does with her time, but I’m a fan. Music, videos, cool stuff. She’s cool enough to wear anything she wants. Forever. That’s what cool gets you.

The yellow pants on that Tarzan guy are going to haunt me. They’re burning into my brain right now. Goth skaters, red lips, the whole scenario. Genuinely creepy. I can feel it already.