Once upon a time there was a girl and while her story line did not include a certain evil step mother or equally evil sisters, it did include rags. Intentional rags though, cut outs and holey t-shirts were all the rage. Figure it a statement and less an obligatory method of dress. One day she almost met a man but before she could introduce herself, he dropped dead. Well, did not really drop dead but pretended that he did so she would go away. Her face was weird, highly accessorized accessories even weirder. As a result, she was all:
“What the fuck happened to you!” Evidently, he did not think his plan out all that well because after a while she learned he was still breathing. Eventually, he opened his eyes and proceeded to stand. She was thrilled that her ripped jeans had ostensibly resurrected him and once he could look past the particularly over-sized tee and recognized how darling she was as a mammal contributing to society in a very meaningful way, he asked out for burritos at Chipotle. She couldn’t go–IBS–and so they planned to meet that evening for instead a drink.
This garnered a la-di-da-di-da-I’m-so-happy song from her and her hair and then she realized she would need to get dressed and so get dressed she did with the help of a magical pumpkin. This wasn’t just any magical pumpkin though, this pumpkin had the power to transform itself into a sack shaped dress of any designer, make holes holier and high waists higher. A repelling pumpkin, if you will. Ultimately though, she didn’t change at all: baggy jeans and a large tee would do, she thought. Plexiglas shoes, too. After all, they would ultimately be the only string that tied this terribly configured story to Cinderella.
She waited at a service entrance, smile on face. Waited and waited and waited and waited and waited and then did some more waiting until she realized that she was being stood up. Stood up, I tell ya. He’s a no show. To take her mind off the notion that she had just become Cinder-no-fella, she played with her accessories and cultivated a new-age arm party that would, with a small sized hard shell purse, or clutch, or minaudiere, whatever, equipped with arm strap, wrap around her arm to pioneer the neo-arm party.
And so a thumbs up she did procure.
From herself. Eventually, she left the service entrance more whole than when she had first arrived despite the current status: singular. On her walk home all she could think was: thank heavens I didn’t lose one o’my shoes, for she didn’t have the time to let a fake dead man wander around with her single Phillip Lim Orsay sandal, try it on many a foot to only weeks later have it returned to its rightful owner. Fairy tales are for babies anyway, she thought.