I know, I know. How annoying.
Naïve little Midwestern girl falls hopelessly in love with big city she’ll never afford but dreams of inhabiting.
Aren’t we just an adorbs little cliché?
|At an awesome little thrift store/bar (really) called "The Dressing Room" (weird grunge-inspired purchase to come)|
|My new French friend Diane & I|
But truthfully. Growing up in a state that conflates yoga pants with dinner wear (oops) and Toms for formal attire, it’s unbelievably refreshing to stroll amongst swarms of printed pants and pleated skirts without feeling like an amusing freak show exhibit.
For the first time in my life I feel as if I can dress like me without somehow implying that I crave attention of the most devoted sort
(obviously this blog centered on myself proves that).
You wear what you want to wear, and nobody even bats an eyelash.
‘Cause there’s always someone weirder.
I repeat : There is always someone weirder.
And that's compared to me.
Did you guys feel the same way when you came to NYC?