House of Milquetoast

It has come to my attention that I have no style. No edge. I am bland, boring, milquetoast. Has this been going on long? Well I don't know. Apparently no one's had the heart to tell me that my outfits are about as exciting as the Bamboo Dance on Lawrence Welk (which oddly enough is one of the more upbeat numbers that I ever saw Bobby and Sissy do). Today I wear a black button up shirt with white polka dots and subtle ruching, jeans and black (fake) croc boots. Sure it sounds cool, but it's puke. Do you know how I sauced it up? A red belt with grommets. That you can't even see. Cause the shirt covers it up. Some one shoot me into space. I long to wear things like lacey high-collared blouses, but I would look like someone's semi-retarded step sister from the Victorian era. I did in fact try one on the other day at the Buffalo Exchange, the local consignment shop. My friend Kara took one look at it and said, "It fails." That's right, my F is not for fashion, it's for failure. Soon enough I won't care about what I wear. As the years pass me by, I can look forward to polyester pants and bedazzled acid-washed denim hats. Oh what bejeweled joy awaits me.