I do adore flared sleeves, they seem so thespian to me. So often I feel they are better suited for a Shakespeare performance than you know, real-life duties. Drinking coffee, eating sushi, doing the dishes are are all made more difficult in a dramatically sleeved shirt. They dip into everything (latte, soy sauce, washing liquid) and the need to glance at my watch involves an aggressive fabric tugging to get just a glimpse at the time. I am cursed with the most unfortunate clumsiness, a white shirt in itself is already perilous, adding wider sleeves provides a whole new dimension of ‘messy’ for me. And so, I cannot celebrate the flared sleeve for practicality but from an aesthetic perspective, they are a solid win. I won’t lie, it’s been a struggle to wear anything but sweatpants these days. The rain drizzles my already waning sartorial motivation into a puddle, I have barely contemplated makeup for weeks; instead haphazardly smearing whatever I find first onto my face with the overpriced Artis brush instagram brainwashed me into buying. So this simple outfit was a hurried attempt to look good, and no, I never have time to iron anything, I never will. Fun Fact: my mother bought me an ironing board and a month later I gave it away.
Oh I do wonder what to write here, at times I fear updating you in the way I would a friend isn’t the way to go. I continue to lose followers on instagram, last Monday, a whole 73 people unfollowed me. That is more people than I could fit into my apartment. And when I saw that statistic -73, I instantly imagined 73 people collectively deciding to leave my house, where I had spent hours curating what I had hoped to be an inspirational feast for them. It made me laugh. I care because it’s my job to be ‘liked’ but I don’t care enough to host a ‘kylie jenner lip kit loop giveaway’ with 200 other instagrammers. Truthfully, I have always lost out in popularity contests, ever since school. I pride myself on being an acquired taste. I cherish the followers I have because the women supporting me don’t loosely follow but fiercely so. Instagram exhausts me, strangling us all into self-definitions boxed up in tiny squares feels uncomfortable to me. I’ve watched the egos of so many influencers swell to cringe-worthy proportions. I’m so tired of the faux enthusiasm blurring every moment of life into a glossy dreamworld. If I have to read (or hear) another influencer minimize everything down to the exhausted description of ‘absolutely amazing’, I might kick a wall because nothing in our day-to-day existence is ‘absolutely amazing’ apart from Outer Space, Mother Nature and maybe, Tom Hardy. Everything feels increasingly ‘faux’ to me, if you don’t have an instagram 100k or the gucci bag with the snake buckle, then you aren’t worth much. I’m sorry, where is the door? Because I want out of this popularity game the industry has evolved into. And yet here I am, still trying or maybe not trying, I have no idea. I live for the self-expression that comes with blogging. My industry frustrations do make me despondent but mostly they motivate me to be more honest,open and humble. I don’t want to be known online for being incredibly rich nor super ‘hot’ but rather an established, interesting woman with stories and clothes anyone could wear. I ate tuna and rice cakes for lunch in a threadbare sweatshirt. Later on, I will be stain spraying the soy sauce and coffee out of my flared sleeves and peeping at my online banking in hopes that my late freelance payments will have suddenly inflated my account. If I I were crazy rich you would only hear from me sporadically because I’d be on an island instead of underneath the sad glow of a computer. As for beauty, ah I can look good in the soft blur of a 50 mm lense but honestly, we all can. It’s far harder to be genuinely interesting and that is what I try most hard to cultivate. But then 73 people leave and I wonder if I am at all.