About the author
It’s Sunday and you’re hungover, angry at the world, at bartenders and most of all: yourself. No worries, we feel the same. That’s why we’ve invented a new item on Overdose.am: Sunday Roast. A bi-weekly ‘column’ that’s in fact more a conversation. A written one. Online. Every other Sunday, Mark and Sabrina vent about the horrible burdens and ungodly mishaps of their 21st century life. Usually reserved only for bars, we bring our problems right into your home. Sharing is sexy, and a problem shared is a problem halved.. You are cordially invited to our pity party.
Dear Mark,
While you were living it up in Paris, I was slaving away at Amsterdam Fashion Week. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I don’t like it..it’s just that..sometimes I can’t handle the fake anymore. I’ve probably kissed around 40 people on the cheeks in three days, some I didn’t even know. Nonetheless I play along; “Oh hi! How are you darling?! Your shoes are amazing, where are they from? ALEXANDER WANG? NO! OH MY GOD!” Some encounters I do enjoy, but some I fake enjoy. I have this down to an art, I must say.
Especially the extreme bitchy comments that go with it. Yesterday I was amazed by how it nestled in my being after just three days, when I kept commenting on clothing. I normally pride myself in being interested in literature, foreign affairs, human emotions, but this week I didn’t get a chance to do anything else than talk fashion. And I couldn’t help but wonder (I swear to god, only thought of this Sex and the City reference because of Fashion Week) why can’t fashion just be nice?
Nice ass girl, I think the Alps have smaller glaciers than that!
Why can’t we say “No I didn’t care for the show, but I think a lot of people will like it?” instead of “Ugh, horrible, did she learn to sew at H&M bootcamp in China or something?!” My mom taught me not to say anything if I didn’t have something nice to say. This philosophy is out of the window as soon as I set foot on that red carpet. When I see someone I’m not particularly fond of I’ll blurt out things like ‘Wow, she looks like she’s gained 10 pounds. Nice ass girl, I think the Alps have smaller glaciers than that!’ or ‘Her Celine is definitely fake. I bet she spends more time on iOffer than Facebook. She doesn’t have any friends to communicate with anyway’ or.. no, hold on, you get the picture. Every time I did this, I amazed myself with how ruthless I can be.
Thinking about a burqa
So, why does everything have to been mean in fashion? It shouldn’t have to be competitive, after all, there’s no accounting for tastes. But it’s like soccer with heels, elbows and screeching voices talking about your nail polish that is so summer 2009. This year I thought about going in a burqa. Not only because I didn’t have ‘anything’ to wear, but also to feel a bit shielded. Even the strongest personalities get a ferm hit. It’s constantly having to put up a show: with some people you have to be the bitch to get things done, then you have to be nice to people from whom you need something. It’s like a freaking one women circus for every attendee who’s working. And you know the worst part? When people who know what I’m talking about will read this, they’ll see something of themselves in this column, but never admit it. If I would guess, they’d say something like; ‘Well that’s rubbish, you can easily be yourself, maybe you’re just insecure’. Well, you know me and insecurity is not one of my flaws, arrogance is. In a way they’re right: you can be yourself, but you have no choice in adjusting that self to a certain standard. I love fashion as a way to express your personality, as a form of art, but not as a way of life.
Well, I’m off, to eat some Ben & Jerry’s and watch the Mentalist while wearing a sweater that’s three sizes too big and says ‘Je Moeder’ with my ugly Uggs on, just because they’re warm. Haters gonna hate.
Toodles honey boo-boo!
XOXO Gossi..Sabrina.
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