Is this, you think, what having three sisters either close in age or of the quadruplet variety would feel like? Never mind for the girls, who would seemingly have to share an identity in quarter portions or at the very least several facial features which ultimately function on a very superficial level as the incubator of the former. But what about the mother? Are her daughters particular about their pants? Will they settle for nothing less than Acne stardust? And hyper mullet tees? Also Acne? What about the father? Can he afford such cravings? I don’t know. I might never. But today on TMR, vision is vital where the wild pants are. It feels just like yesterday that enchantment fell over me during Acne’s S/S 2012 show when the pants with the glitter stars–glitter, people, shiny shit–came walking by with an Alexa Chung haircut and some really good ombre. I even so much as disregarded the mucus yellow cocoon in favor of ‘dem interesting patches.
Fast forward some eight months now when like a mailman with angel qualities from the sky watching over me and listening to my every word, somebody with an important union job dropped these crazy pants (crazy pants?) at my doorstep. Elton John ignited moto-cross, I thought to myself upon first sight before continuing to think: you know I should just buy all the mens clothes that is categorically designed for gay men going forward. This is a digression. But when I picked them up, the truth unveiled itself: dysfunctional ski pants. Dysfunctional because you can’t ski in leather, much less when it’s cropped. Ski pants because they’re stiff and rigid and beg for nothing less than a colorful dainty shoe. And maybe a Gif.
Not because they don’t like snow but because they have no choice. Also, not exceptionally good pants if you are the type of person that likes movement. Walking is more or less out of the question, obviously then so is walking up stairs or doing lunges–typical pant behavior. In matters of the gif though, a little insight: I’m just like, “give me reflective lenses!” My arm is like, “nope.” My face is like, “Man Repeller,” and my neck is like, “where can we find more lips?”