Fuck fashion or becoming fashionable when all we have to look forward to are acetate, acrylic, microfiber, neoprene, nylon, olefin, polyester, rayon, spandex, synthetic, viscose, vegan leather garments.
The rebranded plastic breaks down, then emerges from mysterious sleeper cells in our bodies during the Find Out phase of life. It pills and pulls and fades into obscurity in days. And yet it does not save us money.
Fuck explicitly gendered clothing that lacks an understanding of anatomy—of the soft curves of the breasts, and the gentle swoop and swaying of the hips that wriggle and then bloom into a delightful derriere.
It’s a missed chance for a celebration of the body, often creating a sickly looking, lopsided chest from an ill-placed pocket, or a sloppy tent of fabric pitched haphazardly along the torso.
A well-placed dart could have scored a bullseye.
Fuck the crop top worship of everlasting youth.
Aging is a privilege, but selectively showing skin is an art.
The twenties are just ten short years. Please let the rest of us cover our stomachs in the winter. Heating is expensive.
Fuck padded, underwire, push-up bras in a work-from-home world.
What are we doing wearing unsupportive bralettes meant for A-cups? Or constricting sports bras holding us steadfast among the comparative stillness of a scrum sprint?
Where is the happy medium between structure and sagging?
Fuck the showy labels and logos of designers whose names were once synonymous with quality and skill.
Now they generate grammable window displays, photo opportunities, and filters. The fabric is just more rebranded plastic. Hashtags and ho-hum Harajuku.
Fuck the landfills of cheap shoes and dupes and the 52-week, micro-seasonality of fast fashion.
The boring, slog-toward-death sameness of Pinterest mood boards.
Digital piles of meticulously organized pictures of aesthetics and New York/Paris/Tokyo trends.
When will it end?
We were meant to be swaddled in so much more.
Works of Genius 