Okay, so, I rock up to the local shopping centre today, after being sick yesterday. I had wet hair and no makeup and wore all black. I looked like some sort of pale, morbid, wet rat-tailed tragic, so naturally, I saw two close friends.
Thank god these girls love me in any form. It could have been much worse. Trust me, there have been incidents in the past that scarred those concerned.
When I lived in St Kilda many years ago, I always saw this particularly cool guy, when I wasn’t wearing a bra and some of the most unflattering clothes in the history of fashion (Yes, I’m noticing the theme here also).
Once, I was choosing ice-cream at the supermarket, I saw him wave at me and come and chat by the Neapolitan. I was in some nasty, elephantine track suit pants, a striped t-shirt with hoisin sauce down the front of it and odd thongs on my feet. Not a statement, I just couldn’t find a matching pair.
I then spent the conversation, using my arms to cover the hoisin sauce and my nipples from being in the freezer section. I looked defensive wit my crossed arms and I had to kick the basket away with my feet, as though I was all renegade or something. See? Not pretty.
Every fucking time I saw him I looked like I just rolled around in a charity donation bin and then sashayed down to the shops. This happened about five times (I’m a slower learner than most) until I started to try to make some effort. Of course, then I never saw him again.
*shakes fist at the sky*
The Goddess of Fashion has a funny sense of humour. Sort of.