Elie Saab

by heytherewildflower

is on the same page as me. so maybe other 2012 s/s couture collections were genuinely (ostensibly) more to my taste… and YES, the pastel purple periwinkle beehives and bad girl snarls of Jean-Paul Gaultier’s Amy Winehouse tribute….

BUT there is something behind my shell of snark that deeply resembles (just is) gushy, sappy, flower-kill over-kill, centaurs, Botticelli, wood nymphy, sickening

and Elie Saab made a collection for it.

a collection fit for my insides.

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this one can be for my wedding.

this one can be for my funeral.



take that with a grain of (THIS HAIR!)

oh SIIIIIIIGH this Saab-story makes me want to CRYYYYYY and then PUKE ON MYSELF.

I feel the need to clarify that this isn’t like the “It’s okay if you don’t text him back right away” pages of ladymags, because it’s not that kind of screwing up.  Nor is it the Manic Pixie Dream Girl either — look, guys, maybe Zooey Deschanel has shiny bangs, but I’d rather hang out with or read a book about Courtney Love any day, who is more of like a Manic Troll Nightmare Beast than anything else.  I actually sort of want to see it as an inverse of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl, though I know my character I’m describing here is also easily reduced to male fantasy.  But I want to insist that it doesn’t have to be, and that sheshouldn’t be, which is half the point, that the drunk sloppy girl in the corner is definitely not any more broken than anybody else and definitely not there to be taken advantage of.  She’s a failure of male fantasy, and she knows it, and more than that, she flaunts it, because the point wasn’t the goddamned boys to begin with.

The kind of ladies I’m talking about are flawed, but not damsels in distress in any way.  So I am totally cool with being a Manic Troll Nightmare Beast, because in my experience, that is basically just a symptom of “the human condition.”  I am totally cool with being a human, and I am totally cool with other women who are okay with being humans and not gentle ladies, too. And humans are a lot more interesting.



You know who I am sooooooooooo SICK TO DEATH of? Madonna?  being sick of madonna is practically a cliche at this point. I enjoy “Like a Prayer” and I enjoy “Lucky Star” (but I prefer both REMIXED UP THE asshole into eurotrashpop confections) and the only one instant I ever truly appreciated madonna is this instant:

man. she has a point. Hydrangeas are like the old lady of flowers that want to retain the youthful sweetness and spontaneity of, say, baby’s breath, or stargazer lilies, or whatever, but the rigidity ruins the intention. THey are fickle things that WANT TO DIE, and the only reason hydrangeas exist is because aging, well-to-do soccer moms with empty nest syndrome have a secret competition amongst themselves for who can grow the largest most pruned monstrosity of a hydrangea bush?

the point being, FUCK MADONNA, and HAHA! MADONNA! maybe they’re perfect for you? but also, it’s a fine line between sweet-spot-on flowerkill and old lady hydrangeas. so be wary of that.

nuf’ pinions for today. bye.