A Closet Confession
Re: this title, this isn’t a closet confession that alleviates the pang of hiding homosexuality. Unfortunately, while I salute and admire Jenna Lyons, I’m not really pulling a JL. Though I bet if I were, it’d make boatloads of sense for the sake of this blog. But this is more about an actual closet, one that houses clothes, an ego, things of that sort. If you’ve watched the above, I hope you chuckled amid rolling at your eyes at my stupid anecdotes about France. If you haven’t but still intend to, just know this: I don’t pay retail. That aside, I know what you’re wondering and I did in fact vomit inside that antiquated clutch. It was while I was abroad in Paris during my semester of awesome. I spent a handful of those six months fairly intoxicated but on one of them, I went a little, you know, overboard. Sue me, it was for the sake of a birthday. Yes sure, the birthday of a girl I didn’t know…but a birthday nonetheless. Wine is like three euro a bottle in France and I had nine euro in my pocket so that makes three bottles of wine which in turn makes those bottles in my belly and then, well, what do you know, in my purse. Purse because as aforementioned, I was in a cab, in a tunnel and I had a choice: vomit in the car, get kicked out, never get home, maybe die. Or, remove the contents from said purse, vomit in it. I guess when push comes to shove, I choose life over fashion.
I never said that.