I think, despite all that I try to tell myself, that this will be a personal blog, that there will be no limits, there are still certain things I feel like I should do, and certain things I should write about, and certain things I want to write about but feel guilty about doing so.
For instance, I’ve been rather on a clothing/shoes/outfits obsession for the past few days, constantly scouting websites for cute items that I want to purchase and clinging to certain fashion blogs. And although I’ve kind of grown into my role as the resident cute/weird/fashionista dresser at my school and work, I still can’t really justify the fact that I am so interested in it. I mean, while I really do love dressing well and differently, taking chances and dressing for myself, saying that I like fashion is like…one of those things. As if I really shouldn’t talk about it or consciously admit it.
After all, what sort of people are interested in fashion? Certainly not intellectual twee quirky writer types who’s way too short (none of that “petite” “boyish” nonsense) and although not quite fat, not exactly the model double zero all bones structure that can pull off anything…
In fact, even writing those above paragraphs make me feel a little unnerved. I feel like by actually openly writing about this outside the confines of my mind, I’m making it, and myself, into something I don’t quite want to be.
It’s really, really difficult to even express what I want to say. And this is making it worse. It should be no big deal at all, right? It should be nothing. I should be able to post pictures of my new patent leather mary jane pumps and obsess over them. I should post off the runway dresses and styles I love and share them with invisible readers I’d like to imagine exist…
But somehow, no. Everything I type, when it comes to the dreaded fashion sounds childish and unprofessional. Like a superficial wannabe that I really don’t want to be. It makes little sense, I know, especially since I spend so much of my time thinking about it. But being interested in it…it just seems, like one of those things gay hipsters/scenesters care about. And me? I try to be true to myself. Usually that entails not so much being “hip” as just weird clash of morbid bizarrity and cutesy idealism. Which probably sounds better in writing than in actuality.
Where am I even getting with this?
I no longer have an idea.
And this is probably a very very bad post.
But if I don’t get this across, don’t perhaps attempt to find the root of my embarrassment (for yes, that’s exactly what’s keeping me from really talking about these shallow things that I tell my friends are important because aesthetics is an art, yet I don’t quite believe, or just don’t want to show I believe and taint into writing), then what? Perhaps nothing. Or perhaps I’ll be more limited in everything I write. Attempt to narrow it down to the deep, philisophical. Attempt to only write flowery language that sings like poetry and avoid the real touch of my life with this internet existence.
No, I don’t want to limit myself, and I certainly don’t want to create an idealized version of myself just because it is potentially projected onto the world via internet. So maybe I’ve accomplished nothing with this inner debate, and maybe it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, I’ll still have these:
And even if my intellectual half refuse to acknowledge that I am overjoyed at the fact and can’t stop parading around the house in them, I will let my other, shallow, worthless half rejoice all it wants.