I am looking for someone. I don't know who they are. I don't know their name. I don't know if there is more than one of them. I'm not even sure if they are male or female. All I know is that someone, somewhere out there, has convinced a nation of young women that in order to feel unique they must, without exception, wear the ugliest fucking clothes they can get their hands on.
No, it's not enough to go a little retro or wear Brady Bunch avocado green or match plaids with thick horizontal stripes. Oh no. Young lady, if you want to be unique, if you want to be a true fashion maverick, you have to make a concerted effort to track down the ugliest fucking clothes you can find within a day's drive of your home and wear as much of it at one time as you can, as often as you can.
We're talking the free pile at the homeless shelter. We're talking the annual fundraising bazaar at the Assisted Living Center where they allow the "special" residents to do their own clothes shopping. We're talking liquidation sales at old dusty costume shops. We're talking the booths at flea markets and street faires (not "fair"s, "faire"s) where all the clothes is "designed" and "handcrafted" by 45yr old women who live with lots of cats and drive old Subaru hatchbacks so stuffed with crap that the rearview mirror hasn't been used since 1993.
I'm pretty sure the phrase applied to this phenomenon is "ugly chic." I'm also pretty sure someone forgot the "k" at the end of it. I cannot begin to tell you how many seemingly pretty young girls I see everyday who have purposefully turned themselves into ugly, she-beast harpies by draping themselves in layer upon layer of some of the most heinous women's apparel ever stitched by the hands of Man. I'm pretty sure if you asked Helen Keller to wear some of the shit I've seen these girls in she'd say something like "jesus christ! are you fucking kidding me!? that's some of the ugliest shit I've ever seen!"
I am looking for that 'someone.' I want their name and I want their home address. I want their work schedule and I want to know what time they go to sleep. That way I can strangle them in their sleep with the green and pink and burnt umber striped wool scarf I bought for 60 cents and half a Twix off of a homeless man who nearly turned it down during the Salvation Army Clothing Drive last year because it was so fucking ugly.
I asked him how he could possibly fathom refusing warm clothing. He looked at me like I asked him why he doesn't eat his own shit and then eagerly took my 60 cents. He didn't give a damn about the Twix. You know what he said to me? He said, "hey man, this only leaves me 40 cents away from a lotto scratcher. If I win then I can go somewhere and buy something respectable...like a bathmat."
He was serious. He was homeless, but he was serious.
Posted by nils at 9:44 PM