357 Followers! My favorite all time caliber .357 magnum!
Rohit Bal’s collection for India Bridal Fashion Week - absolutely stunning, and (in my opinion) way more interesting and personal than current western trends.
"The archetype of the witch is long overdue for celebration. Daughters, mothers, queens, virgins, wives, et al. derive meaning from their relation to another person. Witches, on the other hand, have power on their own terms. They have agency. They create. They praise. They commune with nature/ Spirit/God/dess/Choose-your-own-semantics, freely, and free of any mediator. But most importantly: they make things happen. The best definition of magic I’ve been able to come up with is “symbolic action with intent" — “action" being the operative word. Witches are midwives to metamorphosis. They are magical women, and they, quite literally, change the world."
what did people even wear in 2008
apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur
With the fur
I am a fashion scientist and these clothes did indeed have the whole club lookin’ at her.
I remember when I thought people in their 20’s were adults. Now all of my friends are in their 20’s and everybody is just kind of fumbling around bumping into each other, trying to figure out where the free food is
Can this be any more wonderful?
I don’t know how it happens but I end up chatting with all the little kids that the adults bring into my work whenever I’m out on the floor. There was a young girl today, wearing these sweet ass retro shades chilling near the clearance stuff. I noticed she was writing on these bright post it notes and she noticed me watching her but instead of saying anything I just kept doing my shit. She eventually said “I’m writing about the end of the world that takes place on Tuesday.”
"Why Tuesday?" I asked.
"I had a really bad Tuesday last week."
"Oh man. Wanna tell me what happened?"
"My little brother died." Insert me almost toppling over a row of shoes.
"Oh fuck. I’m sorry, shit, pretend I didn’t say that. I’m sorry."
She’s not saying anything, but she looks up at me. “He was really sick, and then he kept getting sicker. Instead of getting better. He liked post it notes, liked drawing on them.”
I fully expected her to cry at this point, but instead, she just kept talking about this little brother I never knew.
But now, I know he likes mashed bananas, drawing starfish pirates, sleeping with his nose buried in their pop’s armpit, being pat on the bum after a meal, and trying to clap along to his big sis’s recorder. He had a mole right on his nose, really sweaty hands and a melon-like head. His name was Jeff. His big sis (whose name, I learned, is Natalia/Talia) was going to draw him a card when he got better.
But now, she wears his sunglasses to remember, and writes stories about the world ending on Tuesdays.