Put simply, I hate fashion. I scowl at Harper’s. I snarl at W. I spit at Vogue. Sometimes, I tear them up, these glossy pages full of anorexic children – part human, part makeup, part computer program – just because I’m worth it. Then I put a colander on my head.
You may say that I am bitter. How is my sex life, you ask? Do men flee my fashion-free person? What is my weight? What has happened to make me reject the things we women are supposed to hug – wedges, fringes, shifts, tassels, linings, bows? And don’t forget shoes! Surely I love shoes, the icons that Carrie Bradshaw worshipped instead of a god? No? I must be ill. Weep for me in my giant knickers. I am outcast.
