Shreaded

I have opened up the flood gates. Now it's an all out battle to fight temptation of all things fashionable. The main reason I don't like talking about fashion is that I've been a fan since the tender age of foetus and have avidly read Vogue and Elle since I was about 6. Not only do I read the glossies but I am a full wit and tend to read biographies on a regular basis and therefore have read many a fashion house biography. I know history, I know style and I have a long memory. However this brings me back to my point. Now fashion has become so synonomous with Myspace photography on one's profile and fake Louis Vuitton for twelve year olds I choose not to speak about the topic in question. I'm not being self-righteous in saying that I know more etc... it's more to the tune of, I feel that I don't need to gush about my profound knowledge (even though I'm doing it right now blah blah blah). It's just so predictable to say "I was ahead of the game by truly appreciating something then everyone comes along and shits on my dream and calls it their own". I'm not over-protective on something that I've enjoyed, truly appreciated, understand and respect, I just feel constant aggitation towards those who profess this love of counter-culture in a mainstream kind of way (OMG, I'm doing it again...).

I'll bet this mildly pent up rage is concerning my application for Conde Nast. This second .com boom is ruining my life. I think I'd be the happiest if I was floating on some island circa '65. This has become the most self-indulgent project. And to make matters worse, I'm going to the Tate Modern with my new friend Martin tonight.








this is what I would die in when I starved to death in 1965 but had access to Chloe's spring 2007 line. it would fit so well because I would be so skinny.

I swear tomorrow I'll say something useful about the weather or at the very least some small chat.