Fashion Week is an anxiety inducing time for fancy flamingos who pride themselves on the art of dressing to repel men for several reasons:
a. Should designers decide to take a cue from the pages of Victoria Secret’s catalogue and dress their models to lure men into the bedroom WHAT DO WE DO?
b. Should the above not happen, the fear of my lady boner offering severe anxiety presents itself. I’m just a blogger, you know. I’m not made of dollar bills. In fact, I’m mainly made of bones and scar tissue and cells and shit like that.
c. That’s it actually. There is no C. It’s not that anxiety inducing at all.
But there is a d: For those of you who opted to celebrate high holidays over high fashion, Happy New Year, Jews!
Thankfully, howeverm Vena Cava was chocful o’sartorial birth control:
The onesie stays around through next spring, and this time it comes fully equipped with camel toe. Not just any camel toe, folks. This is camel toe that takes the average vagina fabric cleavage and turns it into a hockey cup inspired memorandum. A memorandum to remind it’s wearer she’s riding the celibacy train a little while longer.
I call this one, the Tribal Warrior Drag Queen Princess.
Printed harems with some draw string and a heavy upper body padding of sorts! This is a very telling foresight, one that indicates I WILL NOT SOON RUN OUT OF THINGS TO SAY. Not that I would. The shit that goes on up here (I’m pointing to my brain) will blow yo’mind.
Overalls! Yes! Flats! No!
I don’t know if I need to include this, people, but I will. The above were my favorite looks from the show and I will probably dream about them until I own them. This one rocked heavy mangos, too:
Nothing says do me like some high waisted white pants and a little black band across the head. Am I right or am I right? I’m right.