Dear Fashion,
I'm looking for you. I've been saving, and I'm coming to find you. You're a wily bugger, let me tell you. I've scoured Vogue and Flare and In Style, and heretofore the clues to your whereabouts are few and far between. So far I've surmised you like black nail polish this season (dark plum for the working girl hesitant of the honcho's furrowing brow) and red, red, red anything (which is FAB-U-LOUS, since I haven't been able to wear that crimson silk scarf purchased in the heart of the Puerta del Sol for two winters now). Other than this, you elude me. I have faith that Grandma's recent studies in New York dernier cri will guide the way, and I will keep a sharp eye on anything that doesn't cut across the bias, or shorten when it should elongate. Though I admit to you here and now: I haven't quite resigned myself to downplaying my boobies. Because I love them.
Until we meet,
W.
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1 sweet nothing:
Don't forget that crazy-ass-shit where you throw a belt on top of anything. A sweater. A dress shirt. Across your boobs. I have seen one girl look good in the "random belt" look, ONCE. Don't do it!
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