I always used to ask my dad what his favorite color was.
Though I'm not entirely sure what I hoped to gain by continually challenging his palette preferences, something just didn't sit right with me about the his repeated reply:
"Green", he'd say every time -
to which I'd always respond,
"but why don't you like Maroon?!"
|I saw a caterpillar.|
Oh...how genetics are wont to spite you.
Now, not only do I wear "green" on a startlingly recurrent basis, but I no longer accept any shade that can't somehow be matched with jarred baby food or vomit.
Though I'm counting on this benefiting me immensely in my early days of motherhood - at the moment it seems to only be ensuring my perpetual state of singledom.
But while continually cladding myself up to the neck in puke-reminiscent attire hasn't won me any princely suitors, it has made me feel more at one with nature while simultaneously enabling me to camouflage seamlessly into my own being.
|Wearing: shirt: American Apparel, jeans: Paige, boots: Seychelles, necklace: H&M|
Unfortunately. The camoflauge bit only works when I'm not blinding passersby (I do this a lot) with my Wisconsin-winter-white flesh.
Flesh. What an unfortunate word.
Wait, was I saying something?
Oh. Case in point: Olive skin requires Italian sun. Hear that fate? I'm talking to you.
Anyhow, Dad - here's a little compromise. If only an upside-rose-aesthetic ensemble could solve all familial relations.