So there we were last night: a bunch of fags and one ladyfriend watching the PR finale. We were chatting and drinking beer and snacking and being catty, and then the shows began. And I don’t know about the rest of the folks in the room, but I felt this uncontrollable desire to critique absolutely everything that came down the runway–like I was some kind of authority on the fashion industry. Like I was Elsa Klensch’s goddamn boyfriend. Oh, that hem’s falling apart! Look at that poorly made inseam! Jeez, that model’s fat, and that one can’t even walk in heels!
In case you’re wondering, Sherlock, this bitch could sooner hotwire a car than cut out a Butterick pattern. But for some reason–probably ’cause I’m a big ol’ nellybeast and secretly believe that fashion is embedded in my genetic makeup–I felt like I had the right, nay, the duty, to share my insights. Like Tony and Tia discovering their magic powers, I was suddenly imbued with a complete understanding of clothing, from design to production to the channels of distribution. By some fluke, though, I kept my mouth shut–which is good, because truly, I don’t know shit.
I can be quite a pretentious tard when I wanna be. Luckily, one of my personalities tends to keep that in check. Mostly.
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