fashion / life / opinions

Karl Lagerfeld is an Overrated Whackjob.

Writing is not coming easy to me this morning, even with a cup of coffee and the last tendrils of sunlight being slowly eaten by rainclouds. I mean, it isn’t even morning anymore. I opened this document two hours ago and as it nears lunchtime, the sinking feeling of utter inspirationless writing is upon me. So, what do I do? Groan on the couch, ask my dog for advice and mope while the BF offers advice of what I should write about. Each idea is great, but all I can muster is a “mrraaaggggg maybe later, but thanks.” Because how do you show that you’re grateful for ideas? Channel your inner cro magnon and continue to be ungrateful between grunts of frustration and the mourning of a now-empty cup.

I remember that I used to read the writing of someone online and they always referred to a cup of coffee as a cuppa, you know, like a shortening of “a cuppa Joe” or something, but because that didn’t sound stupid enough, they shortened it to just cuppa. The entire post used it, too. “And then I did blah blah blah cuppa because cuppa and then I got another cuppa cuppa cuppa” and the whole time I wanted to thrust my head into the nearest wall because it sounded so. bad. How can anyone use a term like that seriously? I’m not saying I’m a serious writer, but it was so clearly horrible and he used it about as much as a valley girl uses the term “like.”

Beside the point, though. This entry is supposed to be about the struggles I’m facing while writing and not the writing incompetence of others, so it’s time to redirect to rambling. I could talk about how I’m going to eat a cheeseburger for lunch, or how my dog’s snoring is the only acceptable snoring, how adorable my boyfriend looks in his glasses, how I wish I could afford a closet full of Madewell clothes or how the Hobbit themed Lego sets seem so freaking amazing that I’m even tempted to invest in the Escape from Mirkwood Spiders set. But I won’t. I’ll just shove a bunch of random tangential things together that don’t warrant a full post but still are points of minor interest.

A few days ago, Karl Lagerfeld made a total and complete ass of himself. This should not be a surprise to anyone, as K.Lag is kind of an asshole. This is the same guy that professed that he doesn’t pressure women to be thin, his clothes (Chanel, Fendi, Karl Lagerfeld) are all just cut that way. Recently, the paragon of bizarre quotes has come out with a stance on anorexic models and their position, or supposed lack thereof, in fashion.

“It’s a subject I consider ridiculous for several reasons; the story with the anorexic girls — nobody works with anorexic girls, that’s nothing to do with fashion.” – Karl Lagerfeld

Of course! Which is why once Chanel/Prada/etc favorite Alyona Osmanova went from this at the start of her career, vanished and came back as a plus size model, because being thin was so natural for her. She went from walking for Chanel to doing largely test shoots for the plus size division of Ford, which means she’s hardly hanging onto her modeling career (being funneled into the “plus size” division of any agency is basically being thrust into modeling purgatory, and no, fucking Crystal Renn and her hypocritical stance on modeling hardly counts as bringing fame to “healthier” models, when she went from plus size to conforming to the modeling standard after she became famous) and will probably completely vanish within a year. This is probably her decision to do so, and if so, good for her. I don’t know Alyona’s personal struggles, or if she even had them, but it is just ludicrous to state that there are no anorexic models when there are clear instances of women in the industry who are way too thin.

I know the concept of relatable weight when it comes to fashion is laughable and this post is just beating a horse that has been long dead, but seriously, I just don’t understand how anyone can assert such a statement with a straight face. Considering this is the guy who has said that the only bitter people in the world are fat people (because there is no such thing as a thin bitch, male or female) and only drinks Pepsi Max, it is safe to say he’s not a pinnacle of common sense. Hey, at least he’s not prostituting Choupette for once.

On that note, time for some french bread and butter. I know I was going to write about other things as well, but damn if I haven’t forgotten them in lieu of the absurdity of this whole situation.

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