Street Level, Various Offenses
Half of Berlin is walking around looking like this right now and I genuinely don’t know where to begin.
Kelly apparently took my recent enthusiasm for hoodies and ran with it—straight past sensible winter layering and out the other side into some vision of early spring ventilation that probably makes more sense in theory. Points for optimism, I suppose.
There’s something to be said for a pregnant woman who still dresses with more intention than most people manage on their best day. Dark accessories—a bow, a chain, nail polish—against a white top: it works. It always works. I’m not the father, unfortunately.
Someone thought it was a good idea to put "Love or Sex?" on a shirt in bright yellow, which does nothing to resolve the question and everything to complicate the pink pants they paired it with. I noticed the pants first, then the question, then stood there for a moment actually thinking about it. Damn it.
The soft drink brand tee stretched over a middle-aged belly is one of those fashion choices that operates in a dimension beyond criticism. It simply exists. It will always exist. You could argue with it but there’s no one home to argue with.
The black horn-rimmed hipster glasses are, apparently, still happening. I keep expecting them to be over and they keep refusing. Vashtie—New York, music, videos, general presence—gets a permanent exemption from all of this because Vashtie does whatever she wants and it’s always correct. She’s been wearing the same aesthetic since before it was an aesthetic. The rest of you have about six more months before it tips entirely into parody and someone loses an eye.
The yellow pants on the guy with the long hair are going to stay with me in the worst possible way—goth skaters drifting in and out of the edges of the frame, red lips somewhere in the composition, the whole thing burnt into the back of my brain like a dream I didn’t ask for and can’t quite shake.