Drenched In Vogue

Changing outfits four times in one day. Getting naked in the parking lot to do so. Making sure your outfit has enough black on it. Cigarette to the right, hips to the left. Champagne flute on the table in front of you. Zip up your black boots. Skinny jeans on, tucked in, too make sure your edgy. Glamorous poetry read, followed by a fabulous post party, capped off my a tremendous late night stroll through the sparkling downtown streets. All the while checking your hair, your make up, your waist line, your smile, your pout and where your eyes are wandering. Don't show too much interest, but don't look bored. Seem completely enticed, but radically detached. Laugh with your eyes, but disapprove with your mouth. Arms folded, arms crossed, hand in pocket, hand on hip, shoulders curved, ribs out, heels planted firmly on the pretentiousness that is the pseudo-new-age-post-future-art-vogue moment you fell into. Strike a pose. There's nothing to it? I love Madonna like it's my job, but all that vogue shit is tiring. The song is great, but have you ever tried living it out for an evening? It's exhausting. My motives weren't entirely legitimate in the first place, but I was definitely up for the evening. Or so I thought. It was part homework assignment, and part boy chasing. Not just any boy though. A boy crafted so perfectly your eyes hurt if you look directly at him for too long. It's like staring at the sun. And you want to get as close as you can without getting burnt too. He was so perfect I would have cried in front of him, he has that effect. Have you ever seen someone and you just thought you'd be so safe with them you could cry in front of them and not care about it later. You just want to crawl in their lap and hold them, and try as hard as possible to have their atoms swirl up with yours. Maybe you haven't. But if you have, then you'd understand the lengths you'd go to get close to the sun without getting burnt. But somewhere between my second marlboro and my third outfit change I had to face the vogue, as it were, and admit that I can't keep up. I was wading in an ocean of retro-modern-vintage-fit-denim wearing hipsters, doing my best to stay afloat but I had nothing to cling to except my own failed expectations. The boy was sweet and personable but a wolf confined to solitary for hundred years wouldn't be able to touch this boys lone wolf mannerisms. And, after all, no one can live on the sun. It's hot and delicious, but you will end up getting burnt. Who knows, maybe I can go tanning every once in awhile. But, for now, I'll have to keep my glamorizing to a minimum because I'm not sure how to wash pretentious party out of my favorite coat. Or scrub the fakeness off my boots. What's the cleaning solution for that again? Two thirds realism and one third average. I think I could handle it all if I had a metaphoric pair of sunglasses and better denim. But I've not the time or energy to require such things. For now at least.