There was a time when I was Brave; it was around when I was 13 (I feel that 13 is the best age to experience anything, and the things you experience then will be with you always). Being 13 is being old enough to gain entry into the world of the grown-up, but still having youth's insolence such that you foist every new discovery onto the world as though you were the first to find them. I wore big shades from Delia's, bigger JNCO flares, carried a jumbo vintage Dior doctor's bag, and proclaimed Radiohead the best band on earth. I was roundly mocked for all pieces--your glasses make you look like Elton John; nice pants, you could fit immigrants into the back pockets and carry them across the border; nice bag, Mary Poppins. Eventually the balance shifts, and the world beats you down, and you come to discover that nonconformity is a method of conformity, too, and telling the world about your discoveries, even silently, no longer seems gainly, and you shuffle off to work in black pants and a button down.
I was Brave once.
Nothing really going on in this pic, I just felt like I owed y'all some visual proof that I'm not really a long-distance trucker with an overweening obsession for ladies stockings. Also this picture is to catalogue the one and only time I've ever had "glowing skin", as noted by both myself and my boss. Probably because I puked up everything inside me this weekend. Also to note my sorry-ass Paint editing skills, haha. Snake-print top from Express.
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