Bright Lies, Big City

My roommate thinks I need new clothes. I don't. She says I have cute outfits but I need more of them. Fine. I pride myself on living minimally. Closet space in most NYC apartments is non-existent. So,what's the point of having all of these clothes if you have nowhere to put them, right? But the deep dark truth is...I hate shopping. I hated shopping so much as a kid that I would rather just let my Mom do it and suffer the consequences later. It made for some horribly atrocious outfits. When I go back home to visit I cringe at so many pictures that are up around the house because I never looked my age. I can't even recognize myself in those pictures. Anyone who sees the photos can't believe it's me in the pictures. I didn't look like a teenager not so secretly trying to pass for 21, like so many of my peers. Instead I looked 35. My high school yearbook photo looks like I'm a real estate agent. I'm not going to describe in detail what I was wearing, but I'll give you a hint..."fuschia business suit with a white camisole". All of my peers were listening to "Whoomp There It Is" and I was dressed like I had to close a deal on a property listing. It's a miracle I had friends. The only reason I haven't burned that yearbook is because somebody took pity on me, and had enough mercy to run the picture in black and white. It's my my dirty little technicolor secret.