How Do I Look?

My latest masterpiece for the S. project:

I cannot believe she nominated me for this dumb television show. What is wrong with the way I dress anyway? Okay, let’s see, vintage dress, trustworthy Keds, my hair’s in place. . . “So, how do I look?”

They’re looking at me like I just crawled out of the sewer. That super perky host is telling them to say what they think about the way I dress, and I have to stand here and take it.

"I do not look like a moron! Look, just because you don’t—" Oh. Okay. I can’t say anything right now. I have to listen to them put me down. Stupid sister, can’t tell the difference between vintage chic and Goodwill trash. And look at her! She looks like every other tarted up 16-year-old in her high school.

What did he just say? Oh no, I’m gonna cry. Damnit all anyway!

What? Oh, great. Now they’re going to show me my clothes that they don’t like, and throw them away right in front of me.

“No, you can’t do that! I love my Keds—put those back! Don’t you dare throw those away! What? The ones I’m wearing? Hell no! Forget it. I’m not doing this—no, you can’t take that bracelet either. Give that back to me! No. No. This is over. I’m not doing this show, I’m not giving you my beautiful vintage clothes so you can throw them away.”

They love me. They really do! They want me to be happy. “Yes, I know you think you love me. But if you really loved me, you wouldn’t be trying to change everything about me. And if you truly want me to be happy, you’d leave me alone.”

They honestly think they’re doing this for my sake. They may be good at fooling themselves, but I’m not buying. “Look at yourselves! If you went into a mall, or to a club, or to any of the places you freaks hang out at, you’d find a whole bunch of people who look just like yourselves. If blending in with the crowd is what you want to do, then fine. Blend away. But I’m not like that. The people I hang out with are just as “freaky” as you say I am, and we are just fine with that. So, buh-bye now! Get out of my home!”


It took a little persuading, but they left me alone, left me my clothes and my Keds and my bracelet. My sister acted like a total snot—“Have a nice life,” she said, as she huffed out the door. My mother played the “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” card she’s been dealing out all her life. The others from the show were a lot nicer, but I was still damn glad to see their backs as they exited.

Now, where did I put that vintage Pucci mini?