December 24, 2012

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Birds of Feather and Holiday Prophylactics

In the past few days, I made a decision. It was one of the best and the worst decisions I've made in a long time: I started watching Homeland. Friends? Family? Master's thesis? Goodbye, all.

Considering this, when my man-partner woke me at the ungodly hour of 9 AM on Saturday morning to Christmas shop, the threat of returning to the world outside of Apple TV and the CIA terrified me. Aside from a season of television to complete, there was much to be done, like replacing pajamas with real clothes and maybe, showering. Maybe.

As you can see by the prophylactic on my noggin, my new addiction has impeded my ability to maintain an appropriate level of personal hygiene, namely, washing my hair, and has encouraged me to dress like a "lesbian hipster," or so I was told when I outfitted myself that morning.

jacket: Zara, tee: vintage, pants: Rag & Bone, boots: River Island, hat: Topman, necklace: vintage


As much as my outfit allegedly does not communicate, I still do enjoy the opposite sex and things like boy bands and neon without an effort to be ironic, and I don't actually enjoy tight pants, but sometimes you just have to tuck in your love handles and stuff yourself into a pair, regret ever washing them, and hope to God they stretch out.

Nevertheless, even in my state of television withdrawal, there was method to my madness, which developed like the four acts of a Shakespearean drama. (Well, not exactly, but for the sake of speaking in poorly thought out similes let's just pretend.)




First, I looked at a selection of my clothes, specifically, those piled neatly on my floor. Next, I reached for this blue muscle tee, because it was the first thing to catch my eye and if not for any other reason, because it features an eagle flying majestically over a waterfall, and if anything can motivate me to put on a bra and get dressed it's the wonder of nature pictured on a shitty old t-shirt. (See gratuitous photo of my chest, above.)

Next, to avoid arrest, I needed pants. Indulging in my secret desire to dress thematically, I knew it had to be these feather-print pants. Birds, feather, flocking together and so on.




The boots were next. Although I come from the patchouli-smelling west, I prefer leather studded boots to Birkenstocks or bare feet.

Inspired by the temperature of the great outdoors, I added a jacket, and against my better judgement I chose this one, even though the allusion to camouflage and military fatigues makes me look like I could be 2011's menswear blogger of the year.

The toque/beanie/whatever your geographic location inspires you to call it, is concealing greasy hair and with it's sheath-like shape, is also serving as a reminder to practice safe sex this holiday season.

Before I left New York for the holidays, I was at this underground sake bar in the East Village and someone had written on the wall, "the average speed of ejaculation is 30 miles per hour." It was a classy place to say the least, however, that fun fact got me thinking. Thirty miles per hour, or 48 kilometers an hour, means that baby gravy moves as fast as me and senior citizens drive cars! So if you're not trying to procreate this holiday season, wrap everything this Christmas (dicks, boxes, dicks-in-boxes) because if you don't, you may be welcoming a summer baby with a penchant for feather print pants and condom-like hats. Like me.

On that note, I'll bid you good day. Merry Christmas!

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