The Move (also, fashion)

Well, it's happening. We're moving. To the middle of nowhere, after living in the outskirts of a city. That's actually the good part, because I was honestly bored with getting caught in traffic just trying to grab a pint of damned blueberries at the grocery store.

I've been packing and organizing and making lists. It's the song of my people.

I've run out of boxes, as well as things that can be packed this early on, and there's no point in cleaning yet, so I'm sorta going crazy, because my "go, go dammit!" button is stuck on "fuck, go now!" Every other move I've had has been a god damned nightmare of chaos, so I'm attempting to beat this one into submission. Violently assault the problem until it surrenders its mysteries to me. Like I said, the song of my people.

Since there's only so much that can be said about expertly putting stuff into boxes, I also want to talk about my shitty taste in television. If you're one of the 5-1/2 people reading my Sims story, you probably already know that I'm obsessed with Rachel Zoe. I can't figure that one out, really, except that she's a cartoon of a human to me. If you're one of the 5-1/2 people who've seen my closet, you'd know that I'm not particularly into fashion - in fact, I spend most of my time in sweatpants, own literally four pairs of shoes (one of which is a pair of Gore-tex hiking boots) and I can't put together an outfit, even under threat of being garotted.

But - I find people who utter phrases like, "I'm coming undone. I can feel it in my eyes." in regards to clothing - and in total seriousness - completely intriguing. Everything is an emergency to them. Everything is dire. A garment needs to be altered as quickly as that sick person needs a new kidney. They're all having nervous breakdowns and dying in the streets fretting over what Anne Hathaway is going to wear to an awards show. When they're not spiraling toward their certain end over clothing, the clothing is fulfilling them in ways that don't seem appropriate for mixed company.

For once I'd like to see a stylist say something like, "This dress is blue. It completely covers her vagina. It's major. I just died."

That's pretty much all I got, kittens. Except for this, which I can't explain:

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