Be My Guest / Spreading The Love / Week 6 / Day 2
Souad Massi - Raoui - Raoui
slacks and a collared shirt, both the same sun-bleached kermit green color. a vanilla vest on top. a pink tie with some embossed/shimmery paisley print bullshit on it. one matching pink kerchief in the outer breast pocket of a camel hair blazer. a black belt. black boots. black socks. black underwear (fingers crossed). plus, a little yellow flower broach outlined in gold for the blazer on the side opposite the kerchief. and, finally, one single tiger stripe of bleach blonde in your brown-black hair.
that is the recipe for the perfect good-time get-up.
now, you’re gonna purchase said ensemble for ten dollars and twenty-odd cents at that little thrift store off of elston on january the 17th during the height of their winter wonderland freeze-out sale.
you’ll be in there just pacing, both your hands and your forehead dripping, your thumbnails chewed down to nothing. you’ll be nervous as all get-out for literally the whole entire time that you’re in there. and not because you give a shit about high fashion or haute couture or surface aesthetics or anything like that. hell no, not at all. no, you’re gonna be freaking-out in there because you’re gonna be basing all of your outfit choices on what you imagine your babe-dog mega-crush might wear that very night to her going-away party.
what if she’s in her oversized bulls jersey (91 – rodman) with black tights and flats? what if she wears high-waisted acid-wash jeans and her black-and-white DON’T ASK ME 4 SHIT t-shirt with a pair of old sneaks and no socks on? what if she don’t wear no shoes at all? she might be barefoot in an orange-ish floral print summer dress that looks like your grandma’s old curtains, a potleaf earring hanging from her left lobe. fuck, for all you know she could be rocking a crushed-velvet gown adorned in golden detailing, one that’s dark-violet to match her freshly re-dyed purple hair.
and it’s at this point that you’ll find a dressing room and masturbate to this fucking theoretical fashion show that you’ve invented in your half-stoned head. you’ll cum quick and quiet and twice while trying to hold your breath for the sake of not drawing attention to yourself.
this definitely won’t help with your sweating. it won’t stop your rampant anxiety. it won’t make you act any more nonchalant. it definitely won’t make you anymore confident about your clothing picks. but it might make you stop in the check-out line to spend an extra four-or-five bucks on sour gummy worms and mountain dew. and it might just explain why you grin like a cheeky little bastard when your mega-crush tells you that you’re the best dressed babe-dog at her going-away party.