First, I must address the anorexic elephant in the room. I am not talking about the homage to my favorite Nickelodeon show in the title of this post (bonus bitch points if you understand this reference… Emma Roberts in her prime).
For everyone that watched the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show last night (shamefully I did, but only to see if they aired Ariana Grande getting bitch slapped by an angel wing), Karlie Kloss’ strange ballet dream sequence was the most awkward thing I’d ever experienced, out-awking when my second cousin told me I had nice boobs. Bitch wasn’t even in pointe shoes… It was painful and awesome all at the same time. She kept referencing her “background in ballet” but didn’t showcase any actual ballet skills. To clarify, watching Center Stage and not eating doesn’t make you a prima ballerina. She is still very gorgeous so I will forgive her… also if I’m ever famous, I’d like to be in her clique. I’d fit right in as the bitchy, funny friend who likes carbs. She rolls with T Swizzle so I would get them both into liquid calories and make jokes about hating all of Taylor’s cats. At first Tay would take it personally, but then she would realize I have a hidden heart of gold and thank me in her next album for teaching her how to lighten up and not take life so seriously. We would also work with her awkward “dance moves” which is more or less just her whipping her noodly limbs around dramatically. Sounds refreshing right? Watch me.
I am in this really weird headspace lately where I totally don’t give a shit about anything except my dog, my boyfriend, work and hand sanitizer. Maybe it’s the holiday spirit or just a quarter life crisis but I’ve been feeling especially detached from the real world. When I decide to strap on my hottest new Tom wedges, put on my signature Tiffany charm bracelet and fave Bebe tracksuit (I am fucking joking) I find myself incredibly turned off by the strangers I meet.
I really don’t like people who let their stuff validate them. I realize I may sound like a huge hypocrite considering I have nearly sold an ovary for a fresh pair of Louboutins, but I work hard and can buy whatever the fuck I want. Working hard and treating yourself is different then letting these stupid “things” validate you. Maybe it’s just an LA thing (although I hate to sound like an anti-Angeleno because LA is my home and I love it here) I am just so over pretentious people. Air kissing, entitled, name dropping bullshit. I would rather sit in an Outback Steakhouse with a gaggle of sequined visor wearing hillbillies then listen to one more hoe-bag talk about the travesty of Isabel Marant for H&M or fuckin’ SoulCycle. I don’t want to be fabulous or fancy. I want to be funny and smart. Is that so strangely simple to say?
As I’ve grown and met new people, I’ve realized I naturally gravitate towards people who are extremely talented, extremely humble and extremely self-deprecating. I no longer care if your dad can get us N’Sync tickets or if your slutty mom allows boys to sleepover. Priorities have shifted, acquaintances drifted and sugar sifted. I don’t know what that last rhyme means but let it marinade… I am positive it could read super deep.
We live in a world where people, places and things play as attributes to who we are. I am so guilty of this. I will geotag myself anywhere that has 4 stars and above on Yelp. I’m not proud. I’m going to Hakkasan tonight and you best believe I will Instagram the shit out of it… Fingers crossed I make it to the Explore page.
Designer shoes don’t make your steps more important, Balenciaga bags don’t make your baggage lighter and a Mercedes doesn’t make your road any smoother… Although I drive a Mercedes and that shit really glides. If your identifiers are things a bitch should reprioritize and reroute. If that doesn’t work… Go lose yourself through the art of dance like Karlie Kloss.