Thursday, September 27, 2012

Five-O-Clock Shadow

I really would like to stop talking about the weather, but there're only so many inane topics you can cover when you're not interested in getting into "real talk." I mean... I'd do that, but having real talk on a street style blog that's public is about as prudent as shoving as many Skittles as you can up your nose: At first, it's vivid and bursting with flavor, but after a certain point that it comes back to haunt you.

Besides the point. My glasses broke so I super-glued one of the ear-hangy-thingies (that's their official name, I'm pretty sure) back, but I didn't insert the metal hinge part deep enough so now they're too wide for my head and they fall every time I look down. It drives me up the wall.

In less than 24 hours, I will be on my way back to Atlanta, where the players play and all the sports teams worth rooting for are swathed in some variation of red and/or black [I'm (not) looking at you, Georgia Tech], so forth and so on. I expect a whirlwind weekend of Chinese food, cuddling my Mom for the first time in a year, escapade-ing around all the sights in Atlanta, tearing up an Animal Collective concert, riding an ultra-sketch Megabus whose center of mass is far too high for my comfort (If I don't get back, I careened off a cliff. No, I'm serious), and probably doing a little bit of MCAT work, as well).

Hopefully I'll have some interesting pictures up for your viewing pleasure. If not, it will be because my camera equipment got jacked at a Greyhound station at 4 in the morning. Yeah. I'm taking a Greyhound back. At four in the morning on Monday. Why, you ask? Well, I like to mix up my shady ventures, let all the creepy people take a shot at me. Also, I'm extraordinarily cheap. How's that for real talk?

Enough about me. Meet Liz, whose bleached denim shirt coral pants combination instantly caught my eye last Wednesday! Her outfit is reminiscent of all those slack-jawed afternoons that play no part in the grand scheme of our careers, but matter indubitably in the grand scheme of our lives. You know what I'm talking about?

To set the scene: You and your friends are broken down on the side of some interstate in Idaho (cause you're... on a road trip... to... Canada). It's sweltering hot, not a cloud in the sky, and you feel like you'll never get back to civilization. You briefly consider cannibalizing one of your friends (kidding). Then out of the honey comes a group of devastatingly handsome, chisel-jawed motorcyclists--they stop and offer you guys a ride. As you hop on the back of five-o-clock shadow's bike, all of you go riding around town on a delirious adventure! You make some bad decisions, some worse decisions, jump into motel pools naked screaming at the top of your lungs, sing karaoke along with the jukebox at the local pancake place, set off fireworks in the middle of some dark field, get lost in the woods, basically live like you're in an Urban Outfitters ad campaign, and by the morning you're back at your car with four gallons of (what you assume is) gasoline. This is what you'd be wearing. Well, not all of you. You've got that one friend in high-waisted leopard hot pants and a sheer white crop top, as well as five inch platform shoes.

What was she thinking?

The sun washes out every photo that is important to me ;_;


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