Wag the Dog

So yeah, clothes suck.

I live in Wellington, New Zealand, which is a very cold, damp, wet, windy place full of actors and earthquakes. What I hate is Glassons fashion. Now, the Supre chain sets the bar for aspiring porn stars everywhere, but Glassons is where the sheep go to meet. Every. Single. Girl shops at Glassons. So, every. Single. Girl looks the same. Every girl in Wellington is a clone of the next. They all have denim miniskirts with Foxy or Roxy written on the back, the ugly shade of pink sweaters and the same singlet tops, rounded off with the same green Trucker hat. So expressing yourself via your clothes has left the changing rooms. Girls come in three templates here. Now, girls, do you know that you all look the same? You do know that every single girl has that exact top, that exact skirt, that exact whatever, and they are wearing it at the exact same time you are. How do you tell your friends apart? But then again, they're all blonde and they all sound the same so maybe Gods sick of the old fonts and just uses Times New Glassons.

And don't even get me started on Supre. Anyone that shops there deserves whatever they get. Taunts, jeers, leers, whatever, don't you fucking dare say you want to be respected and treated as a woman as oppose to an object when you're wearing a bra and a skirt that has been devised by shortening a belt.

It's Attack of the Clones out there. Now, pretty girls are nice and all but when they are all exactly the freakin' same what's the point in staring guys? But hey, us males are all dumb anyways so it really doesn't matter.

*Shakes fist at humanity*

Todays thing you wouldn't want to hear about yourself in a newspaper: "... believed himself to be the son of the Devil..."