FIRST, we’ll say Hello. NEXT, we’ll talk about Trains. THEN, we’ll talk about Failure. THEN, we’ll talk about Fashion. LAST, we’ll say goodbye.

First, we’ll say hello. Hello. What’s new with you? I’m doing alright in some ways and not as well with others. HELLO IS FINISHED. Next, we’ll talk about Trains.

Disclaimer: This story about shame and virtue signalling involves me virtue signalling.

People who have known me all of my life will attest that I will not run, have not run, do not run  (Have you known me for 5+ years? Have you ever seen me run? Write in and tell us about it, you fucking liar). But I will lightly jog if it means getting one of those nice single seats next to the stinky toilet on a Thameslink train. I lightly jogged to get my single seat after quite a long day of doing work that I am paying to be able to do, instead of the other way around, and luxuriated for 40 minutes in my seatedness in opposition to the plebeian standing character of the other train passengers. But at Peckham Rye some lovely old dears got on. I saw that goddamn no one was gonna offer them a seat, and felt a bit conflicted because, as far away as I was from them, I had two options:

1. Get up quietly, knowing some probable able bodied male was going to think I was giving up my nice single seat so he could sit and spread his legs real wide for the ball room men seem to insist they need or
2. Blow up the ladies’ spot by practically yelling “YOU ARE OLD. HAVE SOME SEAT, OLD.”

Knowing that option 1) would not result in the intended decency I was attempting, I opted for 2). “Would either of you ladies like a seat?” I yelled, all American.

The ladies did. The ladies wanted a seat. Out of obligation, another man got up to offer his seat as if he was going to all along (he wasn’t! Because he hadn’t!).

“That’s what you should do!” A young man loudly affirmed. “You should give up your seat. YOU’RE A GOOD WOMAN,” the young man told me.

I didn’t like this because the other-congratulatory nature of the interaction interrupted the self-congratulation I was looking forward to. Thank god I can indulge it now in front of all 0 of you reading this.

(Yikes), I thought, but “Um, it’s basic,” I stuttered, uncharacteristically too embarrassed to be articulate.

“Yeah, it’s basic! But these muppets didn’t do it!” He gestured at the other seated passengers, who probably deeply resented me in that moment for exercising the most rudimentary act of courtesy so fucking loudly.

“You don’t get people doing that much these days,” an older man agreed to the old lady, who probably would have rather stood than endured all this pomp and circumstance about her being too old to ride a train.

I found all of this excruciating, and I prefer cash money to verbal medals and prizes.

A stop or two later another empty seat opened up. Two young gentlemen and I fought over who would not sit there, like a trio of Amazon Echos caught in the world’s most inane feedback loop. “Would you like a seat? No, that’s ok. Would you like a seat? No, that’s ok. I love you. You’re a robot. I’m the human. Would you like a seat? I love you. No, that’s ok.” We sank into the pain in our feet, eschewing comfort for the ache of pride we took in making everyone feel a little bit like an asshole for not giving up their seats.

TRAIN is finished. NEXT, we’ll talk about failure.

I failed. If you asked me last week what I’d failed, I’d say, “Everything. I’ve failed everything. And it’s because I’m stupid and incompetent and worthless and incapable. I’ve fucked up my entire life and have no one but myself to blame.”

I actually failed a piece of important coursework, and as a result, failed a module.

I walked around saying to everyone “I failed! I failed!” Well-meaning acquaintances mildly told me how much that sucked. I suppose I was hoping for some affirmation, like “You know Einstein failed his Cosmetology course 4 times? Couldn’t do a Brazilian blowout to save his life.” or “You know Ayn Rand failed her being a human who exists with other humans exam? She scored ‘0’ on empathy and ‘0’ on ‘being a cool and pleasant person to hang out with’. She got a million resits and failed all of them.”

My friends and loved ones allowed me an hour or two of self-indulgent whining, crying, lamenting, and doomsdaying, and then said, “Enough. What HELP are you going to ask for?”

Help? Nobody else needed help! Why would I be on a Masters course if I needed help? Surely, if I needed help or support, I didn’t deserve to be there anyway. Sure, I have a stress-triggered chronic illness that is so disruptive that it makes day-to-day living uncomfortable and sometimes impossible, an illness that doesn’t qualify for disability support but still insists on ruining my life. An illness for which my visit to the doctor resulted in the doctor condescendingly telling me there was “no cure” (I asked her to help me manage my symptoms. Not for a cure) and her writing me a list of over-the-counter medicines that may have been novel to me at the age of 10.

And sure, my anxiety has been through the roof. Sure, my family and boyfriend are an ocean away. Sure, it’s enough that this coursework was due right after another piece of coursework that I did VERY, VERY well on and due right before a demanding clinical placement.

But HELP IS FOR DUMMIES. If they are me.

The whole foundation of the job I am learning to do, speech therapy, is supporting people without judgment. I never for a second think of that client base as being “stupid”. It is against the very core of my being to think that way.

In fact, lots of the support I am learning to provide is support I could use myself. I really benefit from knowing exactly what I can expect from my day. I am constantly demanding to know what’s now and what’s next so I can manage my anxiety, manage my illness, and know I can get from one thing to the next.

To begin with, though, I didn’t think I needed help. It’s not like the Presidential Fitness Test, where I’d be pretty pleased if I could SEE my toes, or ENVISION a push-up. This is a topic I already had a degree in, taught by the people who wrote the book we were basing our coursework on. And I failed on every level. I got the structure, the content, the hypotheses, the interventions all wrong. One of the case studies was a young Deaf girl. My sister is Deaf. It was the topic I should have known the most about, and I sunk it the hardest I’ve ever sunk anything.

My logic was, “If you can’t do the thing you know the most about, then that’s real failure.”

Not only that, if I don’t pass the re-sit, this course is over for me. London is over for me. The place I consider my home with many of the people I love most in the world would be over for me. That’s a lot. It’s a lot and typing that is scary.

But every time I go into placement and do the real work, giving people a little help, a little tweak to the environment, a little prompt, and see them have a little more access to the world around them, I know I am capable and I know it is worth it. And there is only hope in that. not shame.

I hope by disclosing the BIG EMBARRASSING HURT I am feeling that I can assure people that even people like me, people who are of average intelligence and low work ethic, fail sometimes! That should make you feel… indifferent?

Ok, failure is…. FINISHED. Next is FASHION.

I put clothes on my body, my body which is a constant political and social battlefield, and also a strain on the NHS that I paid a surcharge to use and will hopefully become a working member of.

Yes, I do have clothes. An amount of them. But a tiny gorgeous baby said to me, “I LOVE your clothes” so I’m validated now. And when you can’t enjoy ANY food, of any kind, ever without being ill, I think you’re entitled to some pleasure in life.

I shaved my head in October to be 11 from Stranger Things. Now it is growing back. I am tempted to shave it again, all of the time, because I looked badass and felt fearless and cool. The moment my hair started coming back in I started getting a bit of the ol’ “Hey baby are you married?”.

I’ve been wearing a lot of Monki for placement because they make excellent prints in sort of professional styles. The issue with my favourites like Monki and Lazy Oaf is that they make “oversize” items but do not make plus sizes. Clearly the barrier here isn’t the cost for that amount of fabric. They make sizes S-L or S-XL that often fit fat people and manage to price it the same across the size range. So I fear the issue is that they don’t want to be known for fat people wearing their clothing. So I want to make it known: I stick my fat (but narrow and flat) ass into Monki and Lazy Oaf, and I look very good in it. Make plus sizes now. Make actual plus sizes and use fat models.

And hire me.

Fashion is FINISHED.

Last, we have goodbye.

Listen to my nicely produced pop song!

I wrote it and Graham produced it and played bass and synths. It’s a jam.

I had this terrible weird grey green hair:

Did I have the grace to be ashamed of myself? The grace, maybe, yes, if by grace you mean cleavage that came from stuffing myself into a dress several sizes too small. I did not have the knowledge, though. I did have an undercut that was rapidly growing in. So I went and saw the magical woman, Carly, at Talking Headz.

Man, what a babe. It’s not incestuous to date yourself, right? Like if that picture of me were another person, I could date her. And it’d be legal and moral and actually against the law to NOT do it.

But that woman in the picture is dead. Nothing that hot can survive. All she could do was burn brightly and then suffer a horrible fire death. RIP, that woman. You didn’t even have a name, because we couldn’t have BOTH been Mary and then dated each other. THAT would be fucked up.

I would like to clarify that the fire death was a metaphor. The real life thing that happened, because fire deaths don’t happen in real life, at least not to metaphorical dateable doppelgangers, is that my hair started getting longer and I knew that my hairdresser was not available so I got impatient and went to dang ol’ Hair Cuttery. Dang ol’ Hair Cuttery must have codified rules about how you are never, ever to listen to the customer. After all, the customer is not a hair scientist.

Hair scientist or not, I knew what I wanted. “I would like to keep my bangs piecey. Please make them shorter.” I said to the lady.

“I’m not going to go shorter” were the words she used. The words her shears used were “I am going to obliterate the contrast between your bangs and the top of your head so that everything is one weird length that no product or comb will be able to change.”

Friends, you know I don’t use rhetorical or literary devices (too expensive), so please take it at absolute face value when I say that the moment this lady started brushing my hair back with a round hairbrush, the round hairbrush that has a societal if not actual label on it that says “FOR AGES 70+”. she created a monster. I will call this monster Joy.

Joy is that lady who stops at the top of an escalator. Joy cares about shit like Thank You notes and judges you for not writing them, as if your friends or anyone you know actually has refrigerator space for that. Fuck you, Joy, you’re the fucking worst. Joy comes up to you when you’re just trying to navigate the nightmare of clothes shopping and says some absolute tripe like, “You know, dear, I’m not exactly small myself. You might want to try a larger size.” Joy is also that algorithm that thinks you want to look at your ex’s facebook even though you haven’t looked at in like two years but every time you type in the letters “Z-o” the first thing that pops up is STILL THEM. Yes, I have an ex named Zoo. He is a zoo. And I don’t want to look at or hear about him.

You know a lady like Joy and she has that haircut. Young cool ladies who totally have friends, like me, that’s a description of me, do not want to be or look like that.

Of course I looked up ways to manage growing out a pixie cut. Lots of them mentioned the use of hair straighteners, to which my immediate thought was always, “IN WHAT WORLD?”

Well, it is a good world, because unlike in the real world where my neuroatypicality is a delicious mix of a lack of common sense that nears the dangerous and a sense of visuo-spatial reasoning that is too low for diagnostic tests to measure, in the world of using straighteners on inch-long hair, I am the King of Thinking. I alone am brave enough to not burn my face or scalp. Hair goos and gels and waxes were also listed, presumably for an audience that values making their short hair slightly less ugly more than they value paying their rent. $85 for Beach Extreme Hair Scuzz? Yes, sold.

My outrage at being Joy and not having $8000 for Beach Man Hair Scam manifested the way all my outrage usually does and I got some nail scissors and gave myself a bowl cut.

Look, I know the conceit about renaming myself based on the qualities I think my hair evokes was not even funny to begin with and worn really thin by the BEGINNING of that paragraph, but is this guy not fucking Chad? Or Ryan? Fuckssake Ryan we know you like Dave Matthews Band and that you’re sad that you ran out of hair gel. You should be sad. You made mixed CDs where you would put multiple songs by the same artist next to one another and you deserve a hell too merciless and evil to describe. If I were a thin person I could pull this off ironically.

If you were looking for some advice about pixie cuts or anything at all that was sort of comprehensible, I will tell you: Uhhhhh be beautiful to begin with or don’t base your self-esteem on your looks and don’t worry about it. Get a trim…regularly…with all that money you have…

I could mention that I just moved back to England but what is there even to say about it? It’s the same as always: not part of Europe, experiencing sub-tropical temperatures, and Sue and Mel are not the hosts of Great British Bake Off.

I have started my Masters of Science at a school whose name sounds fake but in some lists is the 3rd or 4th Best School At Taking Your Money And Looking Good On A CV If You Stay in England. My cohort is almost alienatingly friendly. They had me eat lunch with them and made me take free ice cream. They have not made fun of my hair in any of its stages.

Best thing I’ve eaten lately: Pear made a rose lychee jam and lemon buttercream Victoria sponge for me

Worst thing I’ve had to drink lately: Half a pint of “rum-infused beer”. Infuse me with sweet sweet death my misery to dispel.

Best story I’ve read about lesbian crocodile wives: This one for sure.

Best time I spent 3 hours trying to figure out the retractable clothesline: Who, me? No I am a genius. Look elsewhere for such folly.

Best view of London?: Pulling into London Blackfriars while trying not to cough-vomit on the 30 people standing on top of you on the Thameslink.

*I just had a conversation about this with my friend. what is the word that is like synecdoche but refers specifically to when you use a name brand in place of the larger term?? is it really just proprietary eponym or genericized trademark? well.

The outfit I wore is a little bit wearing the band t-shirt to the band’s show.

I found the dress at Buffalo Exchange with its original tags still on. It’s ASOS and size 14. It definitely would not have fit me if it weren’t backless.

I can’t remember where the galaxy tights are from but I’ve heard galaxy print is over and you wouldn’t be interested anyway. Also they barely fit over my butt, which I have many times reiterated is proportionally far too small.

The harness is by cirque apparel on Etsy. They’re on a break right now and I bet you could find something similar easily elsewhere, but I do recommend them.

Watching me trying to put that harness on is hilarious, a non-believer tussling with sacred geometry . Actually it’s more like a ridiculous asshole who can’t figure out where to put her arms in the elastic holes. It takes me no less than 15 minutes typically.

The movie is seriously very good! It reminds me of other religious historical horror films like A Field in England and The Wicker Man. It’s atmospheric, unsettling, shocking, and strange. I liked that it just showed the historical tropes without trying to subvert them, honestly, because subversion itself has become old hat.

I wouldn’t say it was scary, but it avoided a lot of boring, overused devices involving religious zealotry and mass hysteria in the horror genre. The evil in it is tangible, which is refreshing.

I haven’t been able to find other people who’ve seen it to discuss it so let me know what you thought if you saw it!

I realized I refuse to write about things that I don’t feel like an expert about. I’m an expert about my own anxiety so I can wax on at length about how uncomfortable I feel when anyone walks behind or in front of me. Those closest to me or who have observed me for more five seconds could confidently assess me as someone who is oblivious to her own surroundings but I have a near-debilitating awareness of how people are using the pavement around me. Trying to figure out which way people are going, why they’re walking in a completely unintuitive diagonal line, why I am the bad guy when I need to tell people to not fucking stand at the top of an escalator, these are things I ruminate on enough that I feel fine with talking about them.

SERIOUSLY, DO NOT STAND AT THE TOP OF AN ESCALATOR. I’m an expert on not doing this, and quietly yelling at people about in a panicked way even though I know I am in the right about this supposedly self-explanatory concept.

I work as a person who does music but I wouldn’t dare talk about it even though it consumes every aspect of my life because I know so many people who know so much MORE about music than I do. I have a deep passion and interest in linguistics, but I could say something wrong so readily.

I know a lot about being fat, but probably not the MOST about being fat. I leave that to anonymous internet commenters who are weirdly obsessed with the bathroom habits of fat people. Here is the premise of Fatshion February: Fat people share photos of their outfits. The rest of the months of the year I actually don’t wear clothes so it works out pretty well.

I actually pushed myself to participate in Fatshion February 2016 because I am usually too busy or I don’t get properly dressed enough to merit participating. This year, even though I have to wear some combination of t-shirt and jeans/slacks/trousers at least 4 days a week, I thought I’d make a bigger attempt because it seems a lot of people are sick of it just being a time for people with lots of blog sponsorships and a DSLR to show what kind of cool stuff they got for free and summarily needed to pretend they actually wore somewhere. There is definitely a use in that type of blogging because most people won’t shell out for really wild or big ticket pieces and it’s often the only way we get to see them worn. It’s definitely more aspirational than inspirational or relatable.

No matter how much people try to compartmentalize fashion and politics, it seems they’re inexorable. This is because of things like a correlational relationship between low income and fatness and how there is a wage gap between thin women and fat women. I think it can be kind of alienating to see outfit post after outfit post of people who don’t seem like they have restrictions due to things like work or income. It definitely makes me feel worse on days I have to wear t-shirts and jeans because of how much work I put into looking feminine to compensate for being fat.

By the way, here is a list of words so far that my spell check thinks is fake: sponsorships, commenters, aspirational, relatable, correlational. It’s sick of my millenial (also not a real word) buzzword bullshit.

Documenting my boring work outfits and not just my weird day off outfits has helped me identify a lot of issues I have with my wardrobe. I don’t dress like an adult. I probably should. I’ll turn 30 in 2 years. I do think that all my life has been leading up to me getting a job as a pre-k music teacher. I have always dressed for the job I didn’t know I wanted, and then I got it. I need more blazers, sweaters, and skirts that go past the knee. Speaking of dressing like an adult, check out the Totoro dress I wore on Valentine’s Day. I gave my boyfriend a choice between a bodycon velvet number and this, and he chose this:

We went to Chinatown and had dinner at my favorite Vietnamese place, and Martin excitedly bought a (food) steamer afterwards so it went well. We have a steamer now for the making of buns. Martin actually loves anything that produces steam, whether it reduces wrinkles in clothing or makes buns. My Totoro dress is from Hot Topic, size XL, and I never believed I would be shopping at Hot Topic again but those Hot Cash codes create absurdly good deals. From the ages of 11-15 or so I basically lived at Hot Topic. The smell of Nag Champa and plastic makes me nostalgic.

On February 15th I wore what I feel is the quintessential pre-K music teacher outfit, though it is actually kind of against dress code since I’m not supposed to wear skirts. But look at all the animals it has on it! I didn’t buy it with this job in mind. It was a weird etsy find but I definitely didn’t have many opportunities to wear it till now.

2/18. Every time I go thrifting now I keep an eye out for stuff I can wear over my work t-shirts because wearing a t-shirt bums me out. The button-up is from Charter & Banks, a clothing company for ladies in the 40-60 age range. Sounds about right. These jeggings are size 16 and by Democracy, and I don’t like their stupid fake pockets.

On the 21st my good family/friends Ann and Sigourney took me to the art museum for a wonderful lunch and so I could drag them to see Marcel Duchamp’s Etant donne like I do to everyone. My dress is one of my favorites, one that I found when visiting the adorable town of Rye in Sussex. It’s probably from the late 60s or early 70s. I love those batwing collars!

On the 22nd my very cute boyfriend took me thrifting at Philly Aids Thrift and then we had pie at Magpie, a very cute pie boutique on South St. My dress is from The White Pepper and I lobbed off the arms and made a big boob window because sometimes, in this life, you have to make room for yourself. My wonderful Pear made the felted egg beret.

I have to do laundry basically once a week at least because of my having to teach 4 days a week and only having 4 t-shirts. The laundromat I go to is excellent but it’s inconvenient to get a lot of laundry there as it’s about a half mile walk.

Laundry looks on 2/24: thrifted Deletta top in XL, Papaya Weekend skirt in size UK 20. Some ripped tights because I think right now I don’t have any unripped tights.

2/25. I love this dress! It’s probably from the 70s and I bought it at a charity shop in Sheffield. I did teach that day but I was supposed to go to a non-teaching part of my job afterwards. That didn’t pan out due to a power loss issue so I sat in my kitchen playing guitar.

That’s a Connie Converse song called “2 Tall Mountains/Talkin’ Like You”.

On 2/27 I did a concert for the little ones and wore a poodle skirt my mom made for me in 7th grade and this swan sweater I got on a Modcloth Sales group on Facebook.

2/28. The Philly Aids Thrift trip I took the weekend before was very fruitful in that I found this amazing dress, vintage size 11/12. The buttons come undone easily and I flash everyone but everyone’s seen my boobs so it’s fine. The unicorn belt is an Etsy find.

And my leap day outfit is an old Forever21+ dress, from when they were still Faith 21, with a Forever 21 cardigan with poodles on it that I got from a consignment shop:

I have Intentions to review some bathing suits and my glasses since I get asked about them all the time, but I have some Important Stuff going on and I realize I put hours and hours into blog posts that no one reads. I am an Expert at Being Boring.

It just looks like a featureless grey sack. But the more I looked at it, the more it made me think that perhaps this is the closest fat people could ever get to having something Jil Sander or Helmut Lang-ish made in our size. It looked kind of like the jumpsuits from 1984. We’re sort of living in a dystopia now so why not dress for it? Also it was very very much on sale and an excuse to get my boyfriend a bunch of cardigans that he looks very handsome in.

The very beautiful Denise Bidot is modeling it in a size 1x. The website lists her measurements as 5’9″ with a 41.5″ bust and a 34″ waist. I’m 4 inches shorter than her and my bust is at least five inches bigger and my waist is also many inches bigger so I’m not really sure what compelled me to order it in an XL. It looked very baggy on her and as anyone who’s ever dated me or heard me talk for five minutes can tell you, I have perhaps a slight dysmorphia in that I believe that my breasts don’t exist. I have a realistic view of myself in acknowledging I don’t have hips or a butt. I did not expect it to be in any way bodycon.

My boobs never usually sit that high and close without lots of peer pressure and pep talks and party drugs but in this dress there’s nowhere for them to go but up.

This dress is definitely a good look if you have a fetish for looking like you have been recently vacuumed. There’s a completely extraneous invisible zipper that runs up the side.

I’m usually a size 16 but I’ve recently started wearing the correct size bra, or a more correct size bra (it is not size “no breasts found”. Apparently that’s not even a size), and also I am clearly just bigger than an XL. Next time I would probably order the 1x or even the 2x if I wanted it to fit more like the website pictures. Which I sort of don’t.

I thought I could cover up the fit issues with a fur vest and I DID. I am a SCIENTIST OF STYLE. A PRAGMATIC GENIUS. I shed feathers everywhere I went. The vest is from a consignment store I used to work at. The boots are Frye. And my lovely Instagram boyfriend did not make fun of me for posing like that.

My HDR was malfunctioning. Or maybe… I was malfunctioning?

For my makeup I did a lot of it.

The quality is not bad? It doesn’t feel like it’s going to immediately fall apart. It stood up to a night of a person who was too big for it wearing it around and waiting for the goddamn Septa bus for 45 minutes GODDAMN IT SEPTA

I don’t know what other style applications this dress might have other than “obscured by vest”. It might look cool with my space leggings, but galaxy is sooooo over. The universe is sooo over. We’re all dead.

The annoying thing about that, besides the constant dehumanization, is that my fat opinion doesn’t count about the fat clothing I wear. It’s often designed without the opinion or expertise of the demographic it’s aimed at. On rare occasions it might be designed by someone who fetishizes fat women, oddly resulting in mumsy clothing ostensibly designed to highlight the bust and the face and nothing else.

That’s why I was so pleased when my friend Charlotte asked me to fit model for her MA collection. I had seen her BA collection on Tumblr and loved it– it was brave, sophisticated, retro in its inspiration but forward-facing in that I had never seen clothing for fat people designed that way. Even looking at it now I am wishing it was something that was put into production SO badly!

I traveled to Nottingham all summer while Charlotte worked on her collection, with my brave and loyal Gabby often accompanying me because I had ended a relationship with a dangerous, fucked up person whom I had been living with there. The three of us hanging out at Notts Trent having our Fat Camaraderie Time made me realize how bad it sucks to not have people in your life who can relate to the micro-aggressions you face and the assumptions people make about you. It’s not that I don’t love and appreciate and respect my friends who are thin or medium, because of course I do! But there are certain things you understand better if you go through them yourself, and feeling understood can be an important foundation for your relationships. It was a very nourishing experience.

It was also cool that Charlotte was fine with using a model who didn’t have anywhere near an hourglass figure. She had to do a lot of alterations from the mannequin and in the end everything fit me perfectly!

I knew the perfect person to turn Charlotte’s gorgeous MA collection into a gorgeous photo shoot, and of course that was the amazing Kitty Wood. Charlotte wanted a sort of vintage vacation feel to the shoot, and Kitty found us some great locations in Grimsby. Our first stop was a little railway station for children. The men who worked there were so funny and accommodating and let me pose against the steam engine before they put it away for the day.

I did my own hair and makeup and I never claim to be an expert so calm down okay

Can you believe that yellow coat? It moves beautifully. It’s such an incredible standout piece. I love the color, the pleats in the back, and it makes everything look fancy.

I never thought modeling was hard until I had to pose in heels. Then it’s IMPOSSIBLE.

So ready for my holiday in Grimsby, Lincolnshire. I’d been waiting all year! That dress fits like a dream and that print with the yellow coat is so New Look. The Dior kind, not the high street kind.

Our next stop was the beach! I had to pee so badly the entire time. Can you tell??

I felt like a Ghibli heroine!

I provided the hat. The top is an adorable striped top that flairs a bit at the waist and has a amazing shoulder feature that makes it pretty architectural. I think everyone needs a pleated knee length skirt like that one, as well!

Our last stop was the pier for the nighttime look. I look EXPENSIVE. I, a human being, can’t stop calling myself “expensive”.

My heels kept getting caught in the wood and I almost fell over. That would’ve been a good photo.

It was actually warmer in the ocean! I would’ve loved to go for a swim.

We put this all together only a few days before I left England so it was certainly a memorable way of saying goodbye to two of my favorite people. Charlotte got her MA and I’m so proud of her! You can definitely look forward to seeing big things from her in the future.

Another team that has fat designers and fat models is the Chubby Cartwheels team and I want all of their Autumn/Winter line.

This Suede Babydoll Dress is so good and the model is hot and it was clearly an endeavor put together by people who don’t believe in “hiding problem areas” or “camouflage” but actually like and respect the people they design for!

You can check out Kitty’s post about the photoshoot here! And find the rest of the photos on Charlotte’s blog here!

Martin and I were some of the first people in line and coincidentally behind us were a very talented girl I follow on Tumblr named Tia (go see her art here. It’s nuts!) and friend of my past, Rachel. We had a good little chat in the rain, your normal Jodorowsky and Sailor Moon heart-to-hearts.

SEE I KNEW THE ONE WITH FLASH WOULD TURN OUR GREAT. LOVE, GRANDMA.

Look at you in your little rain jackets.

We got in and they were selling posters and having a meet and greet so I got in line. When it was my turn I nervously mumbled, [?????? ?????] (I like your hair) and he was like “Huh?” and I continued to mumble in Japanese, “It’s purple… It looks cool.” He just said [???] (Really?). So continues my excellent track record of meeting my idols. I wouldn’t have been any less mumbly or a dork in English.

He had a Q&A afterwards but spent the whole time very thoughtfully answering two questions in ways which really illuminated what the fuck was going on. Obayashi was born shortly before World War II in Hiroshima and this affected his whole perception of life, unsurprisingly. He got many of the ideas for this film from his daughter Chigumi, who was 11 at the time (“kodomo wa tensai”/”children are geniuses”, he said) and who is now a film director. This inspired the themes in the film of a generational gap that was impossible to bridge. Auntie’s life is irrevocably changed by the atomic bomb but the young girls in the film are born during a period of economic recovery. Their carefree happiness is juxtaposed against grotesque violence. On first watch, (and second and third!) Hausu is mostly notable for its wackiness, the extremity of its imagery, its actual joy and silliness. Like Last House on the Left, scenes of murder are often preceded or followed by cheery pop songs. A girl gets eaten by a fucking piano. It can easily be appreciated for both its ridiculousness and its surprising depth.

I found this video essay by kogonada to be a really beautiful way of explaining the themes of the movie:

Obayashi also had a touch of Tommy Wiseau about him, as he kept gesturing to his translator’s figure and appearance in order to demonstrate a point about how we perceive her in the light for her great figure and stylishness, but only in the dark can we truly know the contents of her heart, her worries, and her dreams. I did not need the lights to be out to perceive her discomfort.

Besides the movie’s theme that plays perhaps 400 times too many during the course of the film, it has a great soundtrack:

A youtube commenter actually had something insightful to say when they compared this track to maybe early Frank Zappa and Mothers of Invention. It’s also Kung Fu’s theme!

Tia was clever and won a t-shirt that’s been preserved for 40 years! Also she’s the cutest.

GUESS WHAT THOUGH I lost my signed poster when Martin, Tia, and I went to David’s Mah Lai Wah for after-movie noodles.

I sort of dressed up to look like the creepy NEW MOM character that walks around obliviously posing like a movie star while murder is immediately in her vicinity.

HIIII I’m YOUR NEW MOM. What do you mean I creep you out so much that you have to write to some lady you haven’t seen in 10 years at the risk of her house eating you? I’m a jewelry designer!

The gown is a vintage XL and it’s from Philly Aids Thrift. It was covered in all sorts of sad rust stains from improper storage but my loving fella OxyCleaned the hell out of it and made it brand new. It needs a proper photo shoot, I think!

The fantastic Kitty Wood and I also did a black and white androgyny shoot back in April but somehow it didn’t end up in Vogue L’uomo or any other Vogue. Weird and unfair, viagra huh?

I actually got this fantastic suit at Target, an 18 in the blazer and a 16 in the trousers. I can’t find anything like it now and I left it back in England because I am a trash heap who left a bunch of clothes at my very kind Gabby’s house.

I also have this undercut which can read pretty severe so it all came together. It was Kitty’s idea to do this one in black and white. I like that a little bit of my belly is peeking out of the blazer. I feel like androgyny is definitely not the done thing with fat models. We seem to celebrate androgyny most with David Bowie types. That transitional, fluid, ephemeral quality seems tied in people’s minds to thinness.

Look at my clearly defined masculine chins.

Warning: below there is a little more decolletage. Nothing too racy, but it’s probably not super work safe.

I’m not great at makeup but I attempted a pretty severe contour, which thankfully read okay in black and white.

It looks like SO MUCH on my little camera phone.

But reads pretty minimal in black and white. Look at my little baby ham hands, also. I can’t stop laughing. It looks like someone put baby hands in a man’s suit.

And at the end of the day you let your hair down.

The rest of the set is on Zivity and has 0 votes! It gets the slightest bit racier.

In the mean time, if you’re looking for suits and dapper wear in plus sizes, I would check out Haute Butch.

I also like this tuxedo blazer from ASOS (for your Skullomania cosplay)

and this plaid blazer from Target (though it only goes up to an 18. Boo.)

I will bake you cookies and tell you you are the best at things you’re not actually very good at.

I will tell you how much I love you in capslock on either your Facebook or maybe the Facebook page of a business that shares your first name by accident.

My dress is thrifted, I believe from Second Avenue in North Wales. My cardigan is a Ralph Lauren one that I share with my boyfriend. The hat is a nifty Barbour traveling hat that I bought at an antiques fair in Sheffield. The boots are Forever 21.

GRANDMA LOVES YOU. HAVE SOME MINIONS MEMES.

I think I’d be very happy if I could just spend autumn in Philadelphia and the rest of the year elsewhere.

I noticed I am always skipping tracks when listening to music to achieve the perfect cinematic effect of scenery and atmosphere matched to music. Luckily Hall & Oates, the only worthwhile music to come from this city, made a song perfect for the occasion and I can just listen to it on repeat.

I’ve noticed some signs of aging in my face. Wrinkles under my eyes, laugh lines around my mouth. Maybe it’s the haircut or maybe it’s my age but I haven’t been catcalled since I got home, except when I wore cat makeup to work on Halloween and got literally catcalled on the way there. Of course parts of me want to look 18 forever because the obsession with youth affects everything. I really like being 27, though. I don’t mind looking 27 or older. I have a pretty good idea of the career path I intend to be on. I am getting paid for something related to music, which I never imagined I’d get to do. I have a great and healthy relationship, amazing friends, wonderful family. I’ve done a lot of creating in the past couple years.

An 18-year-old doesn’t usually get to have all of those things so why should I look younger than I am? In a lot of ways, too, I never expected to get to 27. I had to go through a lot to get here.

My dress is super old and still looks great. It’s a vintage dress that I got at a thrift store, I’m guessing 70s because of the polyester fabric and the pussybow. The hat is a much loved find from a vintage store in Norwich.

My friend Gloria asked me in a comment on my last post where one could acquire cheap plus size clothing. Recently I had to actually buy pants, which I hate to wear but which are necessary for work. I ended up getting a bunch of pairs on clearance from Old Navy and I can review them later. Their Rockstar jeggings are pretty much perfect if you are an assless chap like me.

Here is some stuff I’ve been looking at for fall business casual purposes. You can click on the pictures to go to the links.

I think this could look really cool with a printed scarf. I love the color.

I’ve been looking at turtlenecks honestly because I would like modest clothing that makes my boobs look bigger.

It’s $15 and it looks like it goes with basically everything and that you could probably fall asleep in it and wake up with less shame than when you accidentally fall asleep in jeans and you wonder where your life has gone and what you were supposed to do with your day

I never thought I’d be into suede or faux suede but I have fallen for this return-of-the-70s claptrap. I want to wear a floppy hat with this.

Donna Hayward, eat your heart out.

Have a song: