It's been a while, dear readers. The bluebird of happiness is so far out of the picture these days that not even the chicken of fashion finds it worthwhile to drop by. And who can blame him? The last time he reared his head to peek through my dusty window I shooed him away screaming "consumerism" and "sweatshop-produced garments" and "vanity fair" at the diminishing silhouette of the scuttling bird. The chicken fled, and now I am feeling a little lonely. Perhaps I could lure him back with a bowl of corn, or with a small saucer of fashion. The trouble is, I fear I have exhausted my sartorial aspirations. I haven't had the energy to look at any of the runways from the fashion weeks, even though I was told Moschino made McDonalds uniforms this season. I am finding it so tiresome to dress myself each day. Can't I just wear a bathrobe and be done with it? I have a very soft and fuzzy one. It may even pass for a camel coat if you're willing to be charitable.
Right now I want to go and live in the woods, away from all this wearying noise. And if I must dress somehow, I shall dress like a muzhik, or like Leo Tolstoy dressing like a muzhik, or like Christopher Plummer dressing like Leo Tolstoy dressing like a muzhik. Perhaps in this disguise I will appear approachable again to my poor chicken of fashion.
Right now I want to go and live in the woods, away from all this wearying noise. And if I must dress somehow, I shall dress like a muzhik, or like Leo Tolstoy dressing like a muzhik, or like Christopher Plummer dressing like Leo Tolstoy dressing like a muzhik. Perhaps in this disguise I will appear approachable again to my poor chicken of fashion.
