90s Clothes Are Mine. Mine, Dammit!
I could strangle you with that spaghetti strap, kid.
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Rage is my first instinct. Why wouldn’t it be? I grew up in the era of the Discman, a device that skipped or failed altogether if a bird flew by at too swift a pace and which consumed AA batteries like Pretzel M&Ms and that was the only way I could listen to music so let’s not be confused when my gut reaction is anger. I earned it. Recently I found myself aflame, again, over fashion, and for once the subject of my ire wasn’t my own scoliotic reflection in the mirror. I was pissed off at the children.
The kids! The youth! Early twenties embryos! They’re wearing 90s-era fashion and calling it trend. They’re making my growing pains garments en vogue without even a shred of respect for how horrific our photos in the same damn outfits look because we didn’t have beauty tutorials or Instagram filters back then. They’re playing with our shit, for sport and adventure, because heaven knows those spaghetti straps aren’t worn for coverage. What I used to covet in dELiA*s catalogues now graces the stock photos coming back from Coachella. Kids! How dare they! How dare they…wear clothes.