What happened was I totally walked into the store knowing what I wanted. Some very basic jeans with tiny legs and a low rise and maybe a sweater or something.
But there was a 30 minute wait for the changing rooms, can you believe that?
And by the time I was done waiting 30 minutes I'd collected so many salesgirl homies because of my fringed leather jacket that I'd also amassed armloads of stuff. So much to try on.
Odd but true: I actually hate shopping. I hate the act of dressing and undressing a million times to find maybe one good thing. When I'm rich I'll have a body double do it for me so that I can eat grapes and drink champagne while she tries on skinny jeans.
Whatevs. Basically after 30 minutes I was looking at another 30 minutes just pulling stuff on and off and shrugging in the mirror.
No not that sweater, makes me look like a fucking linebacker.
Absolutely not that shirt because it just sort of hangs there and looks like everything else I own.
But oooh this. And oooh that. Once in a while.
When the girl handed me acid washed stretch pants in my size I put my hand on my hip and informed her that I'd already *lived* through fucking acid wash once before and that shit wasn't cute then. In fact, my mom wouldn't even let me buy a pair of stretch acid washed jeans because they looked so goddamn trashy -
Wait.
Give me those fucking jeans.
Done and done.
Can you see the skulls on my nails in that picture? I'm totally the trashy best friend's older sister that I used to look up to when I was 12.
Rad.
Sleep well. Hasta manana.
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