As a result of my gradual preparations for moving, my place has (not surprisingly) been transformed into a giant Everest of coat hangers. Trying to pick one up from the pile is like participating in a game of “barrel of monkees” unprecedented in sheer volume. Strangely, it’s simultaneously more dangerous yet less exciting than the original.
If y’all don’t hear much from me in the coming week, it will likely be because I will have been buried under a massive tangle of plastic hooks and triangles. That, or I’ll have strangled to death trying to pour myself into some slinky dress that hasn’t fit since I was seventeen. It chagrins me to admit that I still own clothes into which I’d never fit without amputating a leg. Well, I guess it doesn’t chagrin me so much that I won’t write about it on the internet. Fine. FINE. I am a clothes-hoarder. I’ve said it, and I hope you’re happy.
Let’s not even go near the subject of shoes. I mean, surely those retro stack-heeled lace-ups that were extremely hip in 1997 are bound to come back in style soon. BOUND TO.
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