Rose-Colored Compromise.

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.

Cheers.