Pretty in Pink
Girls who dress in every color simultaneously tend to have nothing to say. The more chaotic the outfit, the more predictable the person inside it—Rainbow Regina over there, buried under neon layers, is almost certainly the most boring person at this party. The clothes are the personality. Which means there isn’t one.
The internet keeps sending me evidence that women can now be cultivated in containers in China, like mushrooms or mold. I’m ordering eight pallets. The logistics are unclear but the principle is sound.
Forget firearms. The weapon of the new urban era is a cat, specifically deployed against anyone with allergies. Nothing looks threatening about a man walking toward you holding a furry animal at chest height—until you can’t stop sneezing. Style points and tactical advantage in a single package.
A genuine warning to anyone attending an outdoor festival this summer: a coconut bikini is not sufficient evidence of fuckability. Some lessons only need to be learned once. Just saying.
Pharrell Williams and Tyler Okonma remain the only two people on earth who can wear absolutely anything and make it look like the only reasonable option. The hats, the proportions, the way none of it should work as consistently as it does. Those motherfuckers are built different.
Flowers in the hair are a reliable camouflage system. They can redirect attention from black streaks, ugly hardware, the general aura of someone who spends too much time in dark places. How long the misdirection holds is a function of flower density. Results vary.
Almost everyone I went to school with turned a certain age and immediately pivoted to reproduction as a full-time career. It happens fast and it happens to most of them. Occasionally one manages to look genuinely radiant while doing it, which is more confusing than it is impressive.
That Mickey Mouse print is roughly the size of the actual Mickey Mouse. It moves when she walks. Almost hypnotic, the way it shifts back and forth. You stop seeing the person and just watch the mouse. Fantasia never had this effect on me.
Black knee-high stockings, no further context required, remain one of the more reliable aesthetic decisions a person can make. I saw this demonstrated conclusively in Munich at the end of 2010 and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.