Futility in Fashion

Disclaimer: This post is a useless snippet and waste of blog space, but the recent encounter with my reflection compelled me to write about the sickly image that stared back at me.

Earlier today, I chatted with my sister and discussed the highly-prioritized British realm of fashion. I didn't actually acknowledge this revelation until I verbalized it, but living in England has made me care less about what I wear than before I came here. Don't, however, think it's indifference that's forsaken my fashion standards; it's the sense of unattainability I feel as I observe the vast wardrobes adorned by all of these intentionally disheveled beatniks. First of all, my unfortunate inability to grow substantial facial hair inhibits me from resembling any type of Kerouac-figure, and second, I am constantly forced to squander my money between two things: food or clothes. Which would you pick? The future of an all-comfortable and contented wardrobe seems, to me, unrealistic and, therefore, I give up. I'll have to remain satisfied with my generic, stone-like attire.

Again, until Tuesday.