Favorite brand: Aritzia bc theyre badass
Favorite clothing item: Leather skirt that’s a hand-me-down from my mom when she was in college
Hobbies: Watching movies, not doing work, photo, cafe hopping, going on twitter, retweeting, laughing at tweets, and tweeting
Fun fact: I’ve never eaten a pbnj sandwich
I always used to say if you see me without my necklace, that’s not me. Either I’d been Avril Lavigne-d, and you’re talking to a bare-necked, Roman poser clone, or… no. There’s no other reason you’d catch me without it.
Clothes sprawl across the room, hanging off my closet doors and the couch. My rings and necklaces, scattered everywhere, glimmer. I roll out of bed, clump a couple of rings into my palm, and grab a knitted shirt off the couch. Holding it up to the sunlight and letting the rays shine through, I smile. Woven in the blue cami’s weaves are stories of nights and people nobody will know about as I strut around campus for the rest of the day.
Europe, grandpa’s closet, Marlboro Reds, and matcha lattes have all made their resurgence in the fashion community as of late. While at face value, they may seem to have nothing in common, they are united by a certain je ne sais quoi they exude. Responsible is a genre of fashion on the upturn: Formal Streetwear.
Imagine you’re at a museum with one of your friends, and you are just blankly staring at a canvas that has paint splattered on it. Your friend nudges you and says, “Wow, this guy’s a genius,” but you can’t help but think that this can’t possibly be art. How can someone think that something so mediocre is “art?”