Fashion is perhaps the most useless art form there is. I could argue, its a hindsight art, in which it is irrelevant until years later you look back at old movies and pictures.
Every time I hear a girl say she lives for fashion or the term fashionista, I cringe. Don’t get me wrong, I like clothes. I like dressing the part. I like projecting who I am and or how I feel that day by the clothes I wear.
I guess what I like about fashion could be expressed in every thing else. I like things that are a reflection of me or what I want to be. Whether this is a color, a shape, a drink, a music genre, shit even a boyfriend.
I wear heels because my legs look more muscular with them, and I look taller. I like the prominence that tallness gives you. I like the sound they make when you walk, and I walk heavy, like I mean it, like I know where I am going.
The cleavage and the short skirts, that’s just bait. I like men, and men like that. I’ll wear a circus tent if that’s what brought boys to my doorstep.
I am certain I am not alone on this one. Fucking dumb bimbos. At times I feel sorry for men who have to engage these narrow-minded, uncultured, egotistical, demented princesas just because they are hot in the hopes they will put out, or bear them children.But then again, plenty of male idiots out there… so not too sorry.
I am fortunate that I grew up with my father. If I ever say “these shoes are to die for” my father will jump from the bushes and give me an uppercut. No, not really- it’ll be worse. He would tense his lower facial and neck muscles, press his lips as if trying to contain an expletive. He would swiftly glance at me and return his eyes into the horizon, seeing nothing in the distance but pretending he is. That’s how my father insults me, by giving me his signature “your embarrassing my last name” look .
I did play with Barbies. I took their clothes off and made them fuck.