I don’t know what it is about pink, but it’s decidedly worn out its welcome. Ever since I stopped dyeing my hair pink, I haven’t been able to stomach the color. Too twee, too cloying, too Pepto-Bismol for my palate. This dress is about as close as I’m able to take, but goddamn can I take it. ’30s crepe in the most luscious raspberry? Check, check, check. I found it on Instagram over the summer, snapped it up immediately, and waited three agonizing months to finally pull it out.
It’ll be a short one today – I’m currently drowning in schoolwork, freelance work, and the semester capstone project that’s due in two weeks. I’m a husk of a functioning person, but at least I can look appropriately bitchin’. I’ve said this a million times, but it remains true: there’s no better way to telegraph “don’t fuck with me” than to dress like someone’s grandma. Does the chick in the feathered hat care what anybody thinks?