Ok so screw it. I'm totally over whining about posting celebrities. Let me be honest: I spend an unholy amount of time on various celebrity blogs and such... there's no point in denying their importance to me. I miss my old blog. I miss coming home after a crappy day and writing something completely snarky and hypocritical about someone I never have and never will meet.
I'll take it slow, of course. There won't be a bajillion posts of every celebrity and what they're wearing, just the stuff that really sticks out and means something to me.
I was searching for pictures of Christina Ricci two days ago and I found these on-set shots of her in costume for the movie Penelope, where she plays a pig/girl hybrid that apparently wears a shockingly fantastic coat with cute crafty buttons. It positively angered me that I couldn't share this with anyone. Sure, I've got friends that I could send these pictures to, along with a few paragraphs explaining how I need this coat in every possible way, more than they could imagine, and GOD isn't Christina just the cutest thing EVRZ, but they wouldn't care and that's fine. My old blog, vanished at my own hands, worked sort of as a photo album for me and my ever changing tastes and opinions on people, colors, shapes, and styles. It was my collection. My baby.
I am growing weary of coming up with new outfits for myself, I do better critiquing and loving and hating others' fashions. In this particular time in my life, filled with financial and personal frustrations, it's hard to wear something radically different from day to day and to go out and buy new outfits and even to get over feeling.... gross.... for long enough to put on something cute. I'm in a constant battle with myself, my closet, my dresser, and that pile of clothing that I can't bring myself to fold or put away. It's really pathetic. Go ahead, tell me.
Just yesterday, I went to see the fireworks down the street, an annual gathering of (mostly disgusting) creatures from all over the area to my particular corner of the world to watch amazing blasts of light in the night sky. I wanted to blend in. Last year, I wore a black mini skirt and skull knee-high socks and a tank top and a hoodie and saddle shoes; I stuck out of the crowd like a giant mismatched painfully unchic rainbow of textures and colors. So again, I wanted to blend in. What are the girls wearing now? Hollister, shorts, cute. They're practically dripping cute. So I chose a teal lace-trimmed camisole and a pair of sky blue finely corded Hollister shorts, with white sandals. And guess what? I stuck out like a GIANT TURQUOISE BEACON with blindingly translucent legs and matching giant turquoise veins and flaming red hair in ridiculous pigtails.
There were The Girls, in their medium-wash denims and their sunkissed hair and gentle summer tans; their distressed leather sandals and terribly chic tanks. Long thin legs, slender bellies and shoulders. Oh bloody hell. There's no point.
I'm beginning to feel like I can't dress myself. There's no way of dealing with it or getting around it, I'm obnoxious and monstrous and I dress like an insane person, and when I try to look presentable and classy and NORMAL, I KNOW everyone can see right though it.
So it shall be; I am The Escapist, the guilty fashion victim claiming her scapegoats left and right, fingering them for the blame. I am the fabled subject of those infamous webspeak lines on forums and messageboards everywhere ; "You're just jealous." "Maybe you should post a picture of YOURSELF and see how many people pick YOU apart." "Who is hotter, Britney Spears, or YOU sitting at your computer eating Cheetos in your pjs."
"You're just a hater."
Yup, that's me. All the way.
I present you with Christina Ricci, glorious and glamourous even with her prosthetic swine features and Ugg-esque boots.