[Be warned: this article (ooh, that sounds snooty and smart - everything this is not) contains a very not "cute, boo boo" amount of teen angst, an over-zealous addition of shut-up-you're-not-my-real-dad type brat-iness and, of course, two cups of old-people-are-dumb-and-know-next-to-nothing-because-they-weren't-'touched'-by-the-knowledge-fairy-since-before-the-dinosaurs teenage sense self-important. Alas, what can you do? Life's so sweet when you're Generation Y (the hell not, man!), hear us roar - but we have to check our Tumblr first so maybe later.]
When I'm not loathing hipsters, admiring photos of beautiful shoes, taking ugly selfies to share with my closest friends on SnapChat (because those are the new BFF bracelets which were the new - uh, how did people claim and show off best friendship before the '90s?), going to {groan, sniffle, cry of pain} school and contemplating whether I'd look good in a snot green velvet jumpsuit (sadly, I would not) my time is consumed by my love, the light of lungs, fire of my heart; my personal style blog.
And, I know, I know, with all that SnapChatting, harassing hipsters in my imagination or thinking about ugly jumpsuits, how do I ever find the time for blogging?
I'm, like, every woman, yo. (Iiiiiiiiii'm evereee woman, it's all in meee...)
It's common knowledge that writing is therapeutic and fashion is the world's second best drug, Oreos being first. I don't know how I didn't know about this amazing online community of well-dressed, clever, polite people who shared their outfits, opinions, inspirations and the sort for so long still bewilders me to this very day.
Whatever was I doing before I stumbled upon Internet treasures like Song of Style, The Man Repeller, London's Closet, Superficial Girls and, the one that started it all, Fashion Breed?
I'll tell you: do that terrifically obvious existing thing when I could have been pulling Tavi Gevinsons and L I V I N G la dulce vita.
(Or, more likely, la low-fat dulce vita because I have the dentist survival stories - er, I mean childhood memories of mean teeth doctors riding my male genitalia about eating too many sweets.)
At some point in high school, everyone needs to have a thing. You know, their thing, their niche, their piece de la resistance (I'm probably using that wrong but that's where that knowledge fairy thing comes in). Like how Prepina McPrepster has her Public Speaking accolades or Limba O'Flexible is this fantastic dancer or how William Mackintosh is the best with computers (yes, the first two were Irish - I like it like that, yo).
Everyone has that thing. And March last year I had nothing. I wasn't even sure what I wanted to do with my life either. Sure, being a type A, model student who is nothing but the prodigal daughter sounds great (for my mom) or growing up to become a high paid advocate is amazing (for my dad) none of those things really spoke to me. Even though they were being force fed to me by the 'apparent' silver spoon my parents bent over backwards to give me (which, don't get me wrong, they did) but it wasn't me.
I wasn't making my own decisions. I didn't have a thing. I didn't have an identity.
Then a Glamour magazine landed in my lap, I saw an article about South African fashion bloggers and the lighting changed, the sky cleared up, Lana Del Rey swooned in the background and my obsessive compulsive need to shop finally had a purpose: I was going to be one of them!
Perhaps it's superficial that I'm so deeply moved by clothing and shoes and prancing around in my favourite clothes for the Internet to see but perhaps you don't see the light. The fashion/style blogger community is the nicest and most-welcoming community I've ever found, especially in a world of Internet trolls and cyber bullies. I finally had my own place to be sincerely me.
And insert gigantic, High School Musical-esque song and dance number here about how I am finally meeeeeee!
xx
Khenzo
www.glitterdaiquiri.com
When I'm not loathing hipsters, admiring photos of beautiful shoes, taking ugly selfies to share with my closest friends on SnapChat (because those are the new BFF bracelets which were the new - uh, how did people claim and show off best friendship before the '90s?), going to {groan, sniffle, cry of pain} school and contemplating whether I'd look good in a snot green velvet jumpsuit (sadly, I would not) my time is consumed by my love, the light of lungs, fire of my heart; my personal style blog.
And, I know, I know, with all that SnapChatting, harassing hipsters in my imagination or thinking about ugly jumpsuits, how do I ever find the time for blogging?
I'm, like, every woman, yo. (Iiiiiiiiii'm evereee woman, it's all in meee...)
It's common knowledge that writing is therapeutic and fashion is the world's second best drug, Oreos being first. I don't know how I didn't know about this amazing online community of well-dressed, clever, polite people who shared their outfits, opinions, inspirations and the sort for so long still bewilders me to this very day.
Whatever was I doing before I stumbled upon Internet treasures like Song of Style, The Man Repeller, London's Closet, Superficial Girls and, the one that started it all, Fashion Breed?
I'll tell you: do that terrifically obvious existing thing when I could have been pulling Tavi Gevinsons and L I V I N G la dulce vita.
(Or, more likely, la low-fat dulce vita because I have the dentist survival stories - er, I mean childhood memories of mean teeth doctors riding my male genitalia about eating too many sweets.)
At some point in high school, everyone needs to have a thing. You know, their thing, their niche, their piece de la resistance (I'm probably using that wrong but that's where that knowledge fairy thing comes in). Like how Prepina McPrepster has her Public Speaking accolades or Limba O'Flexible is this fantastic dancer or how William Mackintosh is the best with computers (yes, the first two were Irish - I like it like that, yo).
Everyone has that thing. And March last year I had nothing. I wasn't even sure what I wanted to do with my life either. Sure, being a type A, model student who is nothing but the prodigal daughter sounds great (for my mom) or growing up to become a high paid advocate is amazing (for my dad) none of those things really spoke to me. Even though they were being force fed to me by the 'apparent' silver spoon my parents bent over backwards to give me (which, don't get me wrong, they did) but it wasn't me.
I wasn't making my own decisions. I didn't have a thing. I didn't have an identity.
Then a Glamour magazine landed in my lap, I saw an article about South African fashion bloggers and the lighting changed, the sky cleared up, Lana Del Rey swooned in the background and my obsessive compulsive need to shop finally had a purpose: I was going to be one of them!
Perhaps it's superficial that I'm so deeply moved by clothing and shoes and prancing around in my favourite clothes for the Internet to see but perhaps you don't see the light. The fashion/style blogger community is the nicest and most-welcoming community I've ever found, especially in a world of Internet trolls and cyber bullies. I finally had my own place to be sincerely me.
And insert gigantic, High School Musical-esque song and dance number here about how I am finally meeeeeee!
xx
Khenzo
www.glitterdaiquiri.com
Published with Monogram
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We can also talk about the overweight, grey cat I'm gonna name Atticus one day or how you're feeling.