A man must share his tragedies. I had a plan to accessorize. It was a vision to match cheap- A plastic wristwatches, copped off ebay, like the cartoon coyote, so to jazz up the wardrode. Get mod. More with the times. It was a grand design at the bottom of the wading pool.
The collection of watches, on the desk about a foot from me, comes in bright yellow, orange, blue, coffee brown (a very subtle shade!) and black. So to match any outfit worn, with docile, socially advanced authority, such as some techno-pop music conveys. There's a not-too-nutty credo in aesthetics.
This type of self improvement has been criticized. Compared to waxing the carrot, in the film Fight Club. Some gritty, sweaty truth in that flick. Life also flings some titillating options at ya'. Fashion is macho, mi amigo. Dangerous, too. So inexpensive, bling. And no, not entirely a self indulgent, narcissistic circle jerk.
The shock occured when I was in a hurry to catch a bus this morning. Out of the house like a bat, I grabbed the blue watch on the way to the door. A seeming minor errand, returning books to the library, though anything can turn baleful. Hours later I was in a coffee shop, when I noticed that the blue watch clashed in the worst type of way with the earth tone outfit this victim was sporting. The coffee colored watch would have slayed. But I looked like a jerk. The net effect of the watch and the duds was muy malo, as styling Spaniards may attest.
Guess I could try to strengthen my case for tragedy. When one goes many places in a hideous outfit, he is ugly every mile walked, every place the ass sat in. See this for what it is. A possible infinity in which all frames are fashion victim. This state of affairs was on my person, my wrist, acting like a germ, sickening some otherwise fly rags. It was the awareness of this. The awareness and the agony which tags along, complaining, malicious, in a dysfunctional bonding between selves.
This victim is grieving the mishap. Tomorro, no dressing like a moron. A plan has to stretch, like rubber. Like the candy color bands on the watches.
The collection of watches, on the desk about a foot from me, comes in bright yellow, orange, blue, coffee brown (a very subtle shade!) and black. So to match any outfit worn, with docile, socially advanced authority, such as some techno-pop music conveys. There's a not-too-nutty credo in aesthetics.
This type of self improvement has been criticized. Compared to waxing the carrot, in the film Fight Club. Some gritty, sweaty truth in that flick. Life also flings some titillating options at ya'. Fashion is macho, mi amigo. Dangerous, too. So inexpensive, bling. And no, not entirely a self indulgent, narcissistic circle jerk.
The shock occured when I was in a hurry to catch a bus this morning. Out of the house like a bat, I grabbed the blue watch on the way to the door. A seeming minor errand, returning books to the library, though anything can turn baleful. Hours later I was in a coffee shop, when I noticed that the blue watch clashed in the worst type of way with the earth tone outfit this victim was sporting. The coffee colored watch would have slayed. But I looked like a jerk. The net effect of the watch and the duds was muy malo, as styling Spaniards may attest.
Guess I could try to strengthen my case for tragedy. When one goes many places in a hideous outfit, he is ugly every mile walked, every place the ass sat in. See this for what it is. A possible infinity in which all frames are fashion victim. This state of affairs was on my person, my wrist, acting like a germ, sickening some otherwise fly rags. It was the awareness of this. The awareness and the agony which tags along, complaining, malicious, in a dysfunctional bonding between selves.
This victim is grieving the mishap. Tomorro, no dressing like a moron. A plan has to stretch, like rubber. Like the candy color bands on the watches.
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