Thug in a Cocktail Dress

You may remember this tweet, you may not. Regardless, today is a day reserved to appreciate the finer threads in thematic dressing. As a pioneering Man Repeller, it’s an absolute duty that I take my tendencies beyond the confines of body hovering and parlay the talent into other scopes of entertainment; enter Bravo, the channel. While New York’s Real Housewives are ridding their show of a big fat chunk of its entertainment, it ain’t over til Simon van Kempen pronounces the truth about his sexuality which, you know, means they’re not going anywhere. In light of this, today we pay homage to what is perhaps one of the most important things counterpart Alex McCord has said. Add a little oomph, picture Sonja Morgan in a cocktail dress and repeat: she is a thug in a cocktail dress. Thug in a cocktail dress? Eureka. I’ve given serious thought to this sentiment and resolved that in order to properly identify oneself as a thug in, you know, a cocktail dress, you must in fact be a thug, wearing a cocktail dress.

And so alas, I’m hip, I’m with it, I can boogie, I can curse, I can give you seductive eyes that suggest slight craziness and may also graze upon some serious mental disorder. I can steal things and break car windows, leave notes that promise to reimburse the victims.

Or I can give you fish lips and flash my pale ass legs at you all the while maintaining a visual air of, you know, thug in a cocktail dress-ness.

And ultimately, you see, if worse comes to it and my sentiment is not properly expressed, I can and will always just forget it and break out in a macarena-lambada hybrid dance. If you’re still reading, I apologize for taking ten minutes from your life that you can never regain.

dress: Elie Tahari, sneakers: Isabel Marant. Photos by Naomi Shon
That’s a peek at my behind, this is my sorry face. I’m practically a sour patch kid: sour, sweet, gone. Bye!
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