Waiting to be fed to Children

I am in the midst of a gay breakdown!

I just realized that in just under two weeks I will go shopping for the first time in almost two years. All of the clothes that I have now are remnants of the me that was at university. I am not that person anymore. Thank God. I never really bought that "transitioning into adulthood" set of clothes.

Sure, I bought some suits, but that was more of a requirement and less of a sign of a changing mindset. My mind is changed now and I want my clothes to actually reflect the me that I am now. I want to retire my university t-shirts. I want to confine them to the small space that is my apartment and then eventually confine them to an even smaller space in the bottom of my drawer. Maybe nostalgia will one day make me take them out and take a wistful trip down memory lane. Hopefully necessity will never ever make me thrust my hands in the direction of my university t-shirts again.

But the point is that I don't know what to buy when I finally arrive in America. I know I like earth tones and hate anything that reminds me of the Easter Bunny. (pastels. ew!) I also know that I have zero desire to resemble a rapper. Timberlands are only cute on Tomo and thuggish guys. I am so not a thug. I am from the suburbs, people.

Is Tomo a thug?

Long story short, I need a stylist. I need a pro. Some oddly dressed chick who looks like she got dressed in the back of a dark closet but has an almost preternatural knowledge of what does and does not look good on me. Don't I deserve that? I've been good. I've been kind to old ladies even when they take my seat on the train or give me the evil eye even after I've gotten off the train. I've hugged trees. I've tried to rationalize with clearly insane children. I've even called them kawaii. I deserve a stylist. It's my right. Well not a right, but in the great game show call life it is my consolation prize. Yes, I lose at life sometimes.

Now were is my damn STYLIST!!!