hypocrisy

I’ve mentioned this a few times now: I’m a bona fide trypophobe. Though trypophobia isn’t yet recognized by the DSM folks, it’s experientially very real, at least according to my experiences. My heart positively races at the sight of tightly clustered holes. Raindrops beading up on car windows is by far the worst for me; I shut my eyes tight and hope I’ll be home soon. Not to put too Freudian a point on things, but I’m pretty sure the phobia stems from the dime-sized hives I sprouted on my thighs at age six, trumpeting my allergy to Amoxicillin. (And now I’m starting to feel the phantom welts. I’ll be in my ward.)

My love for polka-dotted clothes, then, is inexplicable even to me. By proper phobic standards, I shouldn’t even be able to look at them. I could get Freudian again on your collective ass and ham-fist some theory about my obsessive-compulsive superego attempting to impose order on my phobia…yeah, I have no idea. All I know is that polka dots on clothes are a strange and notable exception to my aversion. And that today marks my fourth polka-dotted outfit in as many days.

floral dots III

floral dots X

floral dots IX

floral dots IV

floral dots II

floral dots I

floral dots V

floral dots VI

floral dots VII

floral dots VIII

Dress: Charlotte Russe Blouse & Necklace: Old Gold Tights: Sox Market Hat & Shoes: Gifted

I really love medieval and Renaissance music, and this is a great little track.

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