Yesterday, while running errands throughout midtown for work, my dwindling hope for the everyday citizen continued to erode. As I walked down Fifth Avenue, I saw a line for Abercrombie that snaked around the building. I saw pudgy women giggling over their Ann Taylor Loft finds and waddling straight into Ruby Tuesdays.
Then, this morning I read this, an article about a man unsuccessfully wearing runway looks in the suburbs surrounding London. Not being able to grasp its conceptual value, he wears Vivienne Westwood, gets mocked for not having the confidence to pull it off, and then blames the outfit.
S.O.S. Karl, S.O.S.
I have a dream that one day,
women will stop wearing Uggs,
and Abercrombie will stop calling their generic salespeople "models."
