Awkward things.

Summer Skin

on April 20, 2013

Today this blinding ball of fire appeared in the sky and everyone FREAKED OUT. We were almost convinced that the sun would never re-appear and that the world would be plunged into another ice age. We would have to survive on (non-yellow) snow, icicles and acorns stolen from saber-toothed squirrels. Ok, that might have just been me, but we all got pretty comfortable with snow, jumpers and not going outside. Then this happened and people went crazy. Sunglasses were donned, hoodies were casually wrapped around waists and I saw someone wearing flip-flops. Flip-flops! Lemme tell you, things get pretty wild in the UK when the sun shines, and that, for me, is a big problem.

Summer fashions are designed around the prototypes of Victoria’s Secret models and David Beckham. No-one that lives in the real world and has ever even snorted the scent of a French fry should don these clothes. Mere mortals cannot pull off Daisy Dukes. They just can’t, ok? And I might be a fashion Nazi or whatever, but I just want to be happy and I want other people to be happy. Does it make you happy when your butt waves to the world? Do you smile through the pain of bikini season? Or do you dip your body underwater and refuse to come out of the pool until someone says the magic word: Barbeque. Sarongs exist, and that is a blessing, but so do skinny girls with absurdly big boobs. I know, I’ve seen them.

You should love your body, but that doesn’t mean that you should wear the same clothes as Megan Fox. I like my face, but I’m not gonna wear blue eye shadow ’cause it makes me look like an Eastern European prostitute. In a bikini, I’d look like a hippo out on the pull. I do not suit those things. Instead I shall stay inside in my poncho and glare at the light lapping at the ground, because it is not my friend and I want it to leave me alone. Now. As for you, stupidly hot girls that have fallen out of the pages of catalogues into real life, I have my eye on you, and come rainy season, I shall watch you melt from under the comfort of my umbrella. Bitter, moi? Of course.


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