Ok fine. "temper tantrum" may be an overstatement, but I certainly didn't handle the situation with a grain of maturity.
See kids, it all stemmed from a small suggestion made by my mother last weekend during a rare stay at home that I wear this grunge stoner sweater for a "fun" blog pic.
There's so much wrong with this here statement that I don't even know where to begin.
First of all, (and this one's on me) I'm fairly certain that "stoner sweater" isn't, believe it or not, the official term for said pullover.
I could be wrong, I could be, but I'm not.
Second, blog pics for me are never "fun".
Or if not never, then very rarely. In fact, the affection I feel for getting my photo taken, especially post 20lb winter Skittles-instigated weight gain, is relatively akin to how I feel about adult acne, people who don't let you merge, and that feeling that you get when you can't find the edge of the toilet paper roll and you think that you'll be spinning it for the rest of your life and die trying to find it and never see the light of day again or even the light outside of the stall.
Third, and the reason I put fingers to keyboard (aside from the fact that, you know, I love to talk about myself incessantly every day on this here narcissistic forum of fun) is the notion that I would ever accept any stylistic suggestion made by anyone, even my own mother.
It's not that my mother doesn't appreciate my legitimate shoe addiction or that she constantly questions my shopping-supported sanity or that she's worn the same thing for over 10 years in a row (because, let's be honest, I myself wear a variation of the same 3 things every single day) (and I don't ever even do laundry) (so technically my mom's ahead of me on this one)- it's only that the way I dress is such a source of control for me, that to have it infringed upon by someone else - anyone else, even my own loving mother, irritates me to the core.
Living by myself and having nearly 100% creative say-so over my daily wardrobe and blog posts has led me to take for granted the extreme pleasure I get from ignoring people and doing what I want.
|stoner sweater: old, jacket: H&M, jeans: Gap, shoes: Tibi|
Then someone bursts my little bubble, and I realize all over again that I'm still 5 and still 100% incapable of responding maturely to people when they tell me what to do - which I demonstrate swiftly by throwing mini mumble-filled temper tantrums during which I say the words "really annoying" over and over again and refuse to make eye contact with the object of my annoyance because, hey! if you can't stand up for yourself and say no at the get-go, you might as well resent the entire process and hold a 15 minute wholly unwarranted grudge until your mom selflessly makes you a lobster dinner and you promptly realize that you're probably but definitely going to hell.
photos by mom