Why I suck at fashion blogging.

Alternate titles being:  "Why I'm a low maintenance slob"

or "Why I'll never be a model".

Over the course of the last year or so, I've read (/oggled) an obscene amount blogs. Obviously, such obsessive voyeurism results in its fair share of self-hate & doubt.

What it also results in, though, are glaring realizations about my lack of qualifications concerning blogging.

See: never manicuring/pedicuring my nails.

Refusing to relinquish my gnawing habit.

Often (read: always) forgetting to put in earrings.

Never styling my hair.

Leaving my requisite scrunchie around my wrist for 99.99% of the photos.

Always failing to realize that my bra is showing. 

Essentially: 

never looking perfect. 

But blogging was supposed to be imperfect. 

It was supposed to be everyman. 

It was supposed to be real. 

Now it's turned into a magazine subset - an outlet for professional modeling. 

And that's fine. 

If you're into that sort of thing. 

The downside here is that, unfortunately, I think that we all are. As much as we logistically like "the real" and the "authentic", 

it's often times the clean, the symmetrical, and the spotlessly beautiful to which we are truly and viscerally drawn. 

For example: would you rather look at pictures of my torn up Hobbit hands . . .

or these: 

source

Would you rather see my out of control mane . . . 

or 

this: 

source

Which makes me wonder about magazines and our righteous morals. 

 Do we sometimes mentally crave one thing, while aesthetically craving another? Would we really like clothes modeled on bigger models? Would we really like makeup on "average" faces?

Are we doomed to appearance-based vanity?

Don't know. 

Cheers.