Wear clothes that are too tight or too loose. Wear shorts with white socks and tennis shoes, just make sure they are mom-shorts and the tennis shoes are sparkle-y. Wear clothes from the 70s, 80s, 60s, 90s, fuck, from last year. Just make sure it doesn’t match, or make sure it all matches. Go bra-less, but wear suspenders to hold your white pencil jeans up. Make sure the suspenders give you a wedgie. Wear Fedoras with bandanas, spandex with velvet, and Corduroy with EVERYTHING. Acid wash always wins. Never wear bell bottoms, flares, or boot cut jeans. Wear sunglasses at all times, and never get caught eating unless it’s something hilarious or trendy like a hot dog. Belts go under the boobs. Pointy boots are out. Pointy boots are also in. If you wear make-up, wear a shitload, drag queen-style. Otherwise, wear NONE. Wear shirts as dresses, and pretend you don’t need pants. You don’t even need tights or leggings; bruised white legs and pumps are better. Have lots of crap hanging off your neck. DO NOT gauge your ears or pierce your face, but tattoo the hell out of yourself with things like cassette tapes and bleeding hearts.
Most importantly, wear the two things that make any outfit:
1. A look of total disgust and/or misery on your face, and
2. A cell phone on your wrist. A sidekick is preferred, and the D. Wade edition is even better.
But make sure it ironically* rings “Crank That” By Soulja Boy.
”—Another blog from my first month in NYC in 2007, regarding fashion. It was probably because I looked like a country bumpkin on the subway in my lip ring and Gap jeans.
Four weeks in New York. Everything is expensive. The whole city stinks like farts and garbage. The trains rule, except on weekends, holidays, and when you miss yours. I’ve seen human shit on the subway twice. I tell my mother and she says matter-of-factly, ‘schizophrenics do that, honey. They think if they flush it down the toilet the government will go through it.’
The dudes here aren’t that cute. Nothing here is legit. There is no privacy, space, time, fresh air, or courtesy. I read anything I can get my hands on because subway rides are long and take up much of my day. Fight Club is the most overrated book I’ve ever read.
I bought two shirts from American Apparel and a pair of fake white Ray Bans.
Put on Girl Talk. I’ve sold the fuck out.
”—One of my first blog entries, entitled “Two TVs And Two Cadillac Cars,” after moving to New York in 2007. My, my. Wasn’t I a snotty little 27 year-old.